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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291665">A Few Small Repairs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin'>Mad_Maudlin</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue'>shipwreckblue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Mind Control (The Web), Monster Hunters, Mystery, Rating is M for Language &amp; Violence, Slow Burn, What if TMA had an Endless Fuck Budget: The Fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:13:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>138,344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In March of 2015, Elias Bouchard planned to kill Gertrude Robinson, thwarting her plans to burn the Archives and destroy the Magnus Institute-  but Gertrude shot first. A year later, Martin Blackwood is still working for what remains of the Institute, now run by an enigmatic new director. Sent to investigate the theft of several books from the library, his search leads him to Pinhole Books, current residence of Gertrude Robinson, alongside her latest assistants: Gerry Keay and Jonathan Sims. But according to all records, Gertrude was believed to have perished nearly a year ago, and discovering her alive and well only leads to more questions. As Martin and his colleagues look deeper into the circumstances surrounding the accident at the Institute, they are drawn into a world of monsters and mystery from which there seems no escape.</p><p>Written for the Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020 event with companion art from Dasha @sun-dari!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay &amp; Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood &amp; Sasha James &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>219</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gertrude shoots first. Gerry makes yet another trip to hospital. </p>
<p>Chapter Warnings: Gun Violence, Character Death</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First of all, we want to extend a warm thanks to everyone at Piles of Nonsense for organizing the Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020, without which we would definitely not have finished this quickly. Also thanks to the generous Britipickers and the cheerleading crowd in the Discord server. And a very special thanks to Dasha, for her wonderful artwork and encouraging feedback! Check out more of her work on <a href="https://sun-dari-draws.tumblr.com/">her art blog!</a></p>
<p><em>A Few Small Repairs</em> has been in the making since April 3rd, 2019, and we've come a long (long, <em>long)</em> way since then! Enjoy the ride, everybody.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Magnus Institute, pillar of paranormal academia, stacked with secrets and staffed by outcasts, boasted the most ancient, venerable building in Chelsea. It was built on the rubble of Millbank Prison with a purpose, and as such, there were very few windows allowing natural light to penetrate the structure. It might, after all, damage some of the books. The library only took up about a third of the whole building, but the heavy blanket of silence that characterizes most libraries, the kind that turns all eyes on anybody producing even the slightest disturbance, had permeated the rest of the Institute long ago. In a deserted hallway, leading towards the administrative wing, the short, sensible heels of the Head Archivist clicked conspicuously. But it made no difference whether he knew she was coming; her plan was already in motion. There was no other move now but forward.</p>
<p>Gertrude Robinson approached a thick, imposing door with a very self-important plaque inlaid on the face of it. She checked her watch once, then the clock on the wall. She kept one hand in her handbag as she knocked, signalling her entrance to Mr. Elias Bouchard, Director of the Magnus Institute, London. “Do come in, Gertrude,” he called, before she’d even closed her hand around the handle. She pressed her mouth into a thin line and turned it.</p>
<p>“Hello, Elias,” she greeted him evenly. He was sat behind his desk, hands pressed together almost as if in prayer. “I expect you know why I’m here.”</p>
<p>“In fact, I do,” he replied, his tone laced with a detached, authoritative disappointment. “You can quit hiding that gun, by the way. Might as well have everything out in the open.”</p>
<p>Gertrude nodded, although she knew better than to think Elias would grant her the courtesy of showing his own cards in return. It didn’t matter. She withdrew her hand from her purse, which was steadily clutching a small semi-automatic pistol. “That’s fair enough,” she said. “I suppose now you’ll try and talk me out of it.”</p>
<p>Elias raised one neatly shaped eyebrow. “It’s suicide, Gertrude. More than that, it’s practically mass-murder. I know we’ve had our differences, but you can’t honestly be that desperate.”</p>
<p>“I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Good.” He nodded. “Now then, why don’t we put this nasty business behind us and talk about what you really want from me.”</p>
<p>Gertrude narrowed her eyes at him, and did not replace the pistol in her bag. She took a deep breath, and the air crackled with static around her next words: “<em>Are you trying to have me replaced?</em>”</p>
<p>Closing his eyes briefly, Elias shivered. With a small smile, he spread his hands. “Mea culpa. But in my defense, you haven’t exactly been the most cooperative as of late.”</p>
<p>“Hmm. I wouldn’t presume as much.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s not set in stone yet. We can talk things over. We’ve been working together for a very long time, Gertrude; trust me when I say that I genuinely don’t <em>want</em> to get rid of you.”</p>
<p>“Is that so.”</p>
<p>“Of course it is. If you don’t believe me, please, feel free to compel the truth.”</p>
<p>The next beat of silence hung between them like a string stretched taut, and then suddenly with a blaring screech, the fire alarm started to go off.</p>
<p>That was her cue. “I don’t need to,” said Gertrude over the wailing, decisive. Elias made to move, maybe reach for something stashed in his desk, but he was nowhere near fast enough. With practiced efficiency she cocked the pistol, raised it, and fired three times. Gertrude was a natural talent but by no means an expert markswoman; the bullet holes formed the corners of an isosceles triangle across the tailored expanse of Elias’ shirt. The look of surprise he gave her was almost analytical, even if tainted by pain.</p>
<p>Then somebody, incredibly, opened the door. Gertrude turned and came face to face with a stunned and haggard man somewhere in his forties — or no, she realized, much younger than that, but he was starting to go prematurely grey. He gawked wordlessly at the scene in the office, his expression a picture out of a thriller, but the shock wouldn’t last long. Hopefully, neither would he. Without hesitation, Gertrude raised her pistol again, glancing back toward the desk.</p>
<p>For a moment, an expression of desperate yearning crossed Elias’ face, even as the life faded from his eyes and he choked silently on a mouthful of blood. He convulsed once, twice, then slid down into a rather undignified slump in his desk chair. Finally, he was still.</p>
<p>The man in the doorway made a noise that sounded like the start of a question, but by the time Elias had given one last twitch, he was already halfway towards the ground. He collapsed in a crumpling descent, like a puppet with its strings cut, the crown of his head striking the metal door frame and ricocheting off in a way that Gertrude would have had some distant pity for, if she weren’t sure he was already dead.</p>
<p>Just to be sure, just to <em>know,</em> she strode over around the desk to Elias’ motionless body. Gingerly, Gertrude lifted his wrist and pressed two fingers to his pulse point. She waited for a beat, and felt nothing. He was gone.</p>
<p>She checked her watch again. The alarm had been going for around two minutes now, which meant she had four minutes to get back down into the tunnels and safely away before the fire brigade arrived. Tucking the pistol back into her purse, she rounded the desk once more, then stepped across the threshold over the unfortunate young man’s body. He had been a distraction, she considered, which set her slightly behind schedule, and that would need to be rectified.</p>
<p>Neatly, she kicked off her heels, bent and picked them up. Gertrude was pushing seventy, but she was quite fit for her age, and she was, if nothing else, the Archivist. At least, for now. With her shoes in one hand, keeping her handbag from bouncing with the other, she took off down the hallway at a run. A few feet down the corridor another man had collapsed, sprawled out across her path, his blank eyes staring up at the ceiling. Further down, Gertrude could spot one dainty foot in a crooked kitten heel, sticking out motionless on the floor from around the corner. She veered around the obstacles easily and kept going.</p><hr/>
<p>Gerry had no trouble finding the ward he was looking for; by this point he knew more than he'd ever wanted to about the neurology facilities at King's College Hospital, and a lot of the nurses knew his "mother" by sight. "They're the last bed," one of them whispered to him, pointing to the drawn curtain in the far corner. "Is he family of yours?"</p>
<p>"Yeah," Gerry said automatically as he signed in, despite not having the first idea what she was talking about. "Thanks. Won't be a minute."</p>
<p>Gertrude was sat at the bedside of a man Gerry didn't recognize, primly holding her purse in her lap, eyes shut. He drew the curtain behind him to at least give them the illusion of privacy. "Did you know?" he asked.</p>
<p>She opened her eyes, but nothing about her expression changed. She could win a staring contest with the Easter Island statues. "I thought you were at chemotherapy."</p>
<p>"And I thought <em>you </em>were going to wait until you had backup," Gerry snapped. "Did. You. Know."</p>
<p>"No," Gertrude said. "I suspected he had some sort of fail-safe in place, but I didn't think him capable of such drastic measures. I took precautions to protect myself, but not the others."</p>
<p>Gerry searched her face for any sign of deceit. Any sign of remorse. He found neither. Christ. "So you sacrificed, what, a hundred and twenty people? Just to get to one man?"</p>
<p>"There were one hundred six employees physically present in the Institute, not counting Elias or myself," she said, as if she were commenting on the weather. "A dozen or so who were away from the building for one reason or another seem to have survived, although not completely unscathed. And then we have Mr. Sims."</p>
<p>She looked to the man on the bed. Gerry wanted to protest the change of subject, but he imagined that screaming at her would probably get him escorted out of the ward. So he examined "Mr. Sims," a slightly-built man who was currently hooked up to a horrific number of monitors and machines. Gerry glanced at the white board above the bed, which was scrawled with numbers and abbreviations, then picked up one limp hand to read the plastic band on his wrist. "Sims, Jonathan. Age twenty-seven, height, weight, allergies, blah blah blah … was he one of the lucky bastards who didn't come in today?"</p>
<p>"He was an eyewitness."</p>
<p>Gerry stopped to consider this for a moment. Then he rounded on her and hissed, "You had <em>witnesses?" </em></p>
<p>"Well, not intentionally," she said, betraying for the first time a hint of human emotion, even if it was annoyance. "But he walked in and saw, if not everything, then enough."</p>
<p>And he was still alive — barely. The staff members he'd overheard in the neuro-oncology ward had only mentioned the one person coming in through the A&amp;E instead of going straight to the mortuary. Gerry studied his face, obscured though it was by the breathing tube, but there was nothing noteworthy about him except some prematurely greying hair. "Who's called dibs on him, then?"</p>
<p>"I'm not sure," Gertrude admitted, which was unusual for her. "The End is a rather obvious suspect, but aside from the low level of consciousness, his condition is apparently quite stable. The claim would likely have to predate his affiliation with the Institute, for it to supercede Elias's failsafe, but I would expect anything that powerful to be more obvious."</p>
<p>"Would Bouchard have hired someone with divided loyalties?" Gerry said.</p>
<p>"Oh, I'm sure he believed himself able to control anyone with a few well-placed words." Gertrude glanced at her watch. "The police should be here within an hour to inquire after Mr. Sims' condition. We should both be gone by then.”</p>
<p>Gerry nodded. "I can start making some calls, get a file on him—"</p>
<p>"You'll do no such thing," she declared with finality. "Go home and get some rest, Gerard."</p>
<p>He waited for her to continue — instructions, advice, orders — and when she didn't, he cocked an eyebrow. "Who are you and what have you done to Gertrude Robinson?"</p>
<p>The look she gave him was withering. "I cannot have you passing out in the street because you think you can out-stubborn the side effects of chemotherapy."</p>
<p>"I thought you resented our petty physical limitations."</p>
<p>Something strange happened then: Gertrude let out a bone-weary sigh, and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "Gerard. Listen to me. As far as the authorities are concerned, I died today when the Archives caught fire, a perception I intend to encourage. Even if, somehow, the Magnus Institute continues to function, I will be working freelance from now on. And I will need your assistance more than ever. So go home and take a bloody nap. The world will be in no additional danger tomorrow."</p>
<p>Right. Of course. They still had a church and a circus to take care of. Gerry glanced again at Sims. "What about Sleeping Beauty here?"</p>
<p>Gertrude stood, and smoothed her blouse with one hand. "If we're lucky, he'll never regain consciousness."</p>
<p>"And if he does?"</p>
<p>She made eye contact. "Then I should like to find out how much he remembers about what he saw."</p>
<p>"Right," Gerry said, more exasperated than surprised. "A hundred and six just today, what's one more?"</p>
<p>"Go <em>home,</em> Gerard," she said crisply, one last time, and then she threw open the curtain and was gone.</p>
<p>He turned one last time to Sims, who had not moved or reacted to their conversation. "You'll stay down if you know what's good for you," he muttered, and then started making his way back to the lifts. If he was lucky, he could make it home before he started throwing up.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Low-Budget Horror Film</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin takes a trip to Morden. Jon and Gerry take a hike.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>Martin squinted at the building in front of him, suspicious. Pulling up the address on his phone, he checked it for a third time. He knew it was definitely Morden, but this didn’t seem quite right. Much more quaint, urban, and altogether quintessentially English than he’d expected for Pinhole Books, home of rare and ancient tomes — or at least it said so on their website, which was admittedly sparse. Flanked by an Italian café and an appliance repair shop, a single door with faded brass lettering proclaimed Martin’s destination with all the force and panache of an aging peacock missing most of its feathers. But it was definitely Pinhole Books, and it matched the address. Pocketing his phone, Martin crossed the square and headed towards it.</p>
<p>The door was large, dark, and marked with a sign proclaiming the shops’ hours- 12:00 to 5:00 throughout the week, 10:00 to 3:00 on Sundays. Martin noted that the hours seemed especially devised to <em>avoid</em> visitor traffic, which came as no surprise on top of his initial impressions. He nudged the door, and it swung heavily inwards. A bell tinkled faintly above him as he stepped into a tiny foyer, greeted first by a wickedly steep staircase, and then as his eyes adjusted to the dark, a cluttered shop front was revealed just beyond it, at the top.</p>
<p>Martin deliberated calling up the stairs, but the whole structure seemed far too sinister, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of reluctance to disturb it. He might have scolded himself for such a silly thought, if he didn’t work for the Magnus Institute — <em>or at least,</em> he thought with practiced detachment, <em>what’s left of it. </em>Instead he proceeded into the main area of the shop, edging around a towering shelf—</p>
<p>Only to yelp when a woman seemingly materialized in front of him, heavily tattooed, head shaved clean and looking just about as old and mean as sin itself. “Can I help you?” She asked in a grandmother’s voice that didn’t suit her, airy and creaking.</p>
<p>“I — Er, that is, yeah, you can, sorry I’m — I’m Martin Blackwood. I called ahead,” Martin stammered, forcing himself not to stare. She was wearing a loose black dress with no sleeves, and there didn’t seem to be an inch of her skin that hadn’t been inked. “I’m looking after a couple of volumes — Hang on, I’ve got a list.” Grateful for a distraction, he dug it quickly from his pocket.</p>
<p>"Well thank heavens for that,” said the woman in tones of unfriendly appraisal, folding her skinny arms.</p>
<p>Taken aback, Martin opened his mouth to protest, although what exactly he didn’t know. However another voice rang out through the stuffy air of the shop before he could speak: “Mary, if you could kindly stop driving away our business I’d be ever so grateful.”</p>
<p>“Who’s driving anybody away?” The tattooed woman — Mary — protested easily, gliding past Martin towards a new arrival on the staircase. “This young man has an appointment, apparently. And a <em>list</em>.” Her eyes glittered. Martin had the distinct impression he was being mocked.</p>
<p>The speaker was another older woman, perhaps older than Mary, and looked as if she might have been born in her crisp grey pantsuit as the Alpha of Britain’s most sensible and matronly librarians. She had hair almost the same color as her suit, and drawn back in a bun that would have impressed Helen Mirren. If Mary gave the impression of mocking him just by speaking, this woman made Martin feel inexplicably scolded. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, hi. Martin Blackwood. I think—”</p>
<p>She gave a sharp nod. “Yes, we spoke on the phone. I’m Gertrude.”</p>
<p>“Charmed,” said Martin awkwardly.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid that a matter of some urgency has come up," Gertrude continued, "so I won't be able to show you the titles we discussed in person. One of the other staff will have to help you." She looked at Mary. "Would you be so kind as to fetch Jonathan?"</p>
<p>"Of course," Mary said, all sugary sweetness. Then she took a deep breath, threw back her head, and produced a horrific, piercing shriek. <em>"JONATHAN COME TO THE DOOOOOR."</em></p>
<p>Martin instinctively flattened himself back against the wall, heart leaping into his throat. Gertrude, however, merely rolled her eyes. "Thank you, Mary." Then she offered Martin a perfunctory smile. "He'll be with you in a moment."</p>
<p>"Okay," Martin said, hating how small his voice came out. Gertrude left down the stairs; Mary winked at him and disappeared into the bowels of the shop.</p>
<p>For a few moments, Martin was alone in the crowded anteroom of the shop, and once he'd got his heart rate under control he could look more closely at the books on display. Most of them were shelved rather haphazardly, though a few had been placed in a glass-fronted cabinet that took up most of one wall. Many had a slip of paper poking out of the front cover, listing dates and editions and prices that made his skin crawl just to think about.</p>
<p>He studied the titles in the cabinet and spotted something familiar: sandwiched between a couple of old almanacs and beautifully bound edition of the <em>Summa Theologica </em>was a frayed and faded copy of <em>La Poulet Noire, </em>one that had no visible price slip. Wasn't that one of the titles he'd been sent to find … ?</p>
<p>Martin reached for his list, and realized he'd dropped it when Mary screamed. Frantically, he scanned the floor, and when the list didn't immediately become visible, he got down on his hands and knees to peer under some of the shelves. There — it had slid under the cabinet. He could just barely work his hand in the gap, but he managed to catch the edge of the paper and slide it back out again.</p>
<p>"Can I help you?"</p>
<p>That was a man's voice, not Mary's breathy creak, and Martin sat up sharply. Jonathan, presumably, was standing in a doorway he hadn't noticed before: he had grey hair (was anyone in this place under the age of fifty?), a salt-and-pepper beard, and was looking down his nose at Martin with a hassled expression. Then again, Martin was sitting on the floor, so perhaps he couldn't help it?</p>
<p>"Hi, sorry," Martin said, scrambling to his feet. "I'm Martin Blackwood, I called earlier and Gertrude said—"</p>
<p>"Right." Jonathan cut him off and turned smartly towards the door. "Come on, then. The computer's back here."</p>
<p>Martin followed him through the warren of the shop, which seemed to be floor to ceiling books — though he did catch a glimpse of a small kitchen through another half-closed door. Maybe Gertrude lived on the premises? The computer Jonathan mentioned was a desktop made of beige plastic, still sporting a sticker admonishing the owner to turn it off before midnight on 31/12/99. At least the operating system appeared to be recent, if slow to start up. "How many titles are you looking for?" Jonathan asked in a slightly less brusque tone.</p>
<p>"Erm...about twenty?" Jonathan's eyebrows went up, and Martin offered him the list. "I mean, these are the titles that have gone missing from our library. It could just be a mistake, God knows we're short staffed these days, but I found where your shop had listed some of them online so I wanted to check…"</p>
<p>"That we hadn't stolen them?" Jonathan asked.</p>
<p>Martin felt his face heat up. "I'm not — I'm not accusing you of anything," he said quickly. "But, um, there's not that many rare book dealers in London who specialize in antique grimoires, so I thought maybe you could help…?"</p>
<p>Jonathan skimmed down the list, and his expression clouded. Clearly he recognized some of the titles, at least by name. "What library are you with again?" he asked, as the Windows start-up tune finally played.</p>
<p>"The Magnus Institute?" Jon recoiled from Martin as if he'd uttered some rare curse, and Martin grimaced. "I guess you've heard of it…"</p>
<p>Jonathan cleared his throat loudly. "I, er. Iusedturkrgh.'</p>
<p>"Sorry?"</p>
<p>"I said." Jonathan was peering at the computer screen far more closely than could be necessary or comfortable. "I said I used to work there."</p>
<p>Martin blinked. Then he blinked again. Not many people could say they <em>used to work </em>for the Institute, and now that he was looking closer, past the beard ... "Oh my god, you're Jonathan <em>Sims</em>."</p>
<p>"Yes. Erm." He looked faintly embarrassed. "I'm not sure I caught your name…?"</p>
<p>"I'm Martin! Martin Blackwood." He wasn't really surprised Jon didn't remember him, though he remembered Jon — he'd nursed a bit of a crush on him at one time, to tell the truth. But Jon-then had been a fairly fastidious dresser, clean shaven, and his hair had been mostly black. Jon-now, just six months on, was wearing paint-stained jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt under a cardigan. And, well, the hair and beard hadn't helped. "I thought you — I mean, after the fire I didn't see you and I — I hadn't heard — " Deep breath, Martin, try again. "How, er, how've you been getting on?"</p>
<p>"Fine," he said loudly. "Fine. Obviously." It took slightly too long for him to ask. "And, er, you seem fine as well?"</p>
<p>"I mean, can't really complain," Martin said with a half-shrug. "Still hanging on. Not many of us left, after, you know."</p>
<p>"The fire," Jon supplied. "I imagine not." For a moment his eyes went distant, probably thinking of all the friends and colleagues who hadn't made it out. Then he looked back down at the list Martin had provided. "And someone's stealing out of the library?"</p>
<p>"I mean, maybe?" Martin shrugged. "The director asked me to look into it, but there's no CCTV in the building anymore, so I'm not sure what to do except start canvassing rare book dealers and hoping for the best."</p>
<p>"That's…thorough, of you." Jon looked like he wanted to say something much harsher than <em>thorough, </em>but was politely refraining. He turned his attention back to the computer, where he'd opened a simple spreadsheet. "Erm. We keep track of the sources for our stock, for provenance purposes, so I suppose we might have the name of your thief. Assuming there is one."</p>
<p>“Any sort of lead would be more than we’ve got right now,” Martin admitted with a nervous smile.</p>
<p>Jon scrolled through the spreadsheet for a few minutes, eyes flicking between the monitor and Martin's list. He was quiet for long enough that it got awkward, and Martin would've started rambling again if he'd had any idea what to say. <em>You look well </em>wasn't exactly true, was it, and he wasn't all that interested in the intricacies of the rare book trade. He could ask how Jon had come to work for Pinhole Books, after the fire, but what he really wanted to know was —</p>
<p>Jon abruptly closed out of the spreadsheet. "The titles were all purchased from the same dealer, who I don't believe has any connection to the Institute. Sorry to disappoint."</p>
<p>Well, damn. "Can you give me their name? Just to follow up?" Martin asked, not really expecting the inquiry to lead anywhere.</p>
<p>"I — sure," Jon said, and he rummaged about in an overstuffed drawer for several minutes before simply tearing a piece of paper off the dot-matrix roll on a nearby shelf. "His name is, erm, George Icarus. I don't think he has a mobile; we mostly communicate by email, at any rate."</p>
<p>Martin accepted the strip of paper, and took his list back as well, pocketing them. "I suppose that's better than nothing? Thank you for your help."</p>
<p>"Of course," Jon said. He started the computer shutting down, which managed to take longer than booting it up had.</p>
<p>That should've been that; Martin should've left, and decided on the way whether to return to the Institute or just get off the tube at Stockwell and make an early day of it. He had the latest <em>Bake-Off</em> episode recorded for this evening, and some leftover shrimp fried rice in the fridge he’d been looking forward to all day. By all means, his mind ought to have been occupied with nothing beyond the prospect of these private pleasantries; this trip had been a long shot anyway, practically a fool’s errand. But before he could stop himself, he’d blurted out the question: “Did you get sick?”</p>
<p>“What?” Jon squinted up at him as if Martin had asked him something in Polish.</p>
<p>“A-after the whole CO2 business,” Martin hurried to explain, skin prickling with embarrassment. “I wasn’t there during the fire, because of — of some, routine, er, well I was picking up lunch, and — anyway I must have still been exposed, because for the whole week afterwards I was so ill I could barely make it out of bed! And, everyone I’ve talked to who managed to ah, avoid the worst of it? They said the same thing. So.” He swallowed with some effort, wringing his hands. “Did you get sick too?”</p>
<p>Jon frowned, for just a moment, and then his face went carefully and deliberately blank. "I, ah, I was — yes. Yes, for some time."</p>
<p>Martin opened his mouth, questions piling up as fast as thought — <em>was it bad? Did you feel like you were dying? Did you feel like you were losing yourself, like something had been pulled out of you to leave a bloody, aching void? Did you have nightmares you couldn't remember upon waking? Do you still?</em></p>
<p>Perhaps it was a fortunate thing that Jon's mobile rang, then, before Martin said something truly stupid. Jon jumped like a startled cat and fumbled it out of his pocket. "Yes, what?" The voice on the other end was not quite loud enough for Martin to make out. "Just about done here, I think. Why? … Is it dangerous? … You know what I meant! … Right. Gertrude's out, so you'll have to settle for me. ... Very funny, Gerry. I'll be there in a couple of hours." He ended the call and then glanced at Martin, looking at least a bit contrite. "Sorry to have to cut this short—"</p>
<p>"No, no, I get it." Martin had already started folding the paper with George Icarus' details into his pocket. In a fit of boldness, though — or perhaps just the strange intimacy of sharing a common tragedy — he unfolded the paper and tore a scrap from the very edge, just large enough to cram his own mobile number into. "Um. If you think of anything else, or you hear anything, or — you know, if you just want to talk? I mean, you can call the Institute, too, the number's still the same, but if you wanted to … not do that, for some reason—"</p>
<p>"I — thank you," Jon said, over the top of Martin's panicked stammering. "I, I appreciate — yes." He covered the little scrap of paper with his hand, cool fingers briefly brushing Martin's own. They both jerked their hands back at the same time, and the paper fluttered to the floor. "It's fine," Jon said, before Martin could dive down to retrieve it. "I've got it. I — thank you."</p>
<p>"Thanks for … you know," Martin said inanely, and shoved the rest of the paper into his trouser pocket. "I'll see myself out."</p>
<p>"Mind Mary as you go," Jon said, apropos of nothing.</p>
<p>Martin glanced back one time as he wound his way back to the shop's entrance. Jon was sat motionless in the office chair, holding that tiny scrap of paper in both hands. He was staring, his expression positively nonplussed, while over his shoulder in a friendly orange font the computer announced it was now safe to turn it off.</p><hr/>
<p>Jon had never seen the point of owning a car in London, and in actuality, he had never owned one before in his life. However, if Gerry was going to continue to drag him out to places like Epping Woods, a good two bloody hours from Morden by bus, he might be willing to consider the previously unthinkable. He had at least exercised the forethought to wear trainers, the most woods-appropriate shoes he owned, and ones he had bought specifically for outings like this. Before the accident, Jon’s lifestyle had not called for anything that might be considered <em>active wear.</em></p>
<p>He waited on the edge of the woods until Gerry found him, appearing out of the treeline like some kind of gothic forest witch and making him jump. “You made it!” He called, crunching through the brush towards Jon in his tallest, thickest pair of black leather boots. “I wasn’t sure you’d be keen on a hike. Started to wonder if you were gonna show up.”</p>
<p>“Of course I was coming!” Jon gestured around him, at the general forestry. “This place isn’t exactly a quick jaunt from the Northern line, that’s all. What are you doing all the way out here?”</p>
<p>“Well, up until a few minutes ago, I was doing some nature sketches. Almost got hit by a couple of mountain bikers around noon.” Gerry shook his head. “Pricks. But I was actually looking into the area because of a handful of fatal maulings that have happened over the past couple of months. There’s been at least ten murders here since the 1960s, but those were all… Well, really gruesome, actually, but still procedural. The maulings, though, they’re having trouble figuring out whether a person or an animal is responsible.”</p>
<p>Jon nodded, holding up his phone. “I saw the articles you sent me — I read them on the bus, but they don’t make sense. None of them are even asking what kind of forest animal here could possibly maul a full-grown man to death — I mean, I doubt it was a rogue bloody pine marten.”</p>
<p>Gerry folded his arms. “So do I. From what evidence I’ve managed to scrape, I think it looks like a wolf.”</p>
<p>“Epping Woods doesn’t have wolves. The United <em>Kingdom</em> doesn’t have wolves,” Jon pointed out.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” said Gerry. “But we used to.”</p>
<p>“In about the fourteenth <em>century,</em>” said Jon.</p>
<p>“Fifteenth,” Gerry corrected.</p>
<p>Jon blinked at him. “Oh. I see.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “So this thing is <em>old.</em>”</p>
<p>“Ancient.” Gerry agreed, as he turned and started back into the forest. Jon followed him. “I think it’s been moving around for centuries. Epping Woods is probably the closest it’s gotten to real civilization for a while. Seems like it hibernates, or something, but if I’m right, it’s definitely awake right now.”</p>
<p>Jon considered this, then tripped over a tree root and nearly ate shit on the forest floor. “Christ — ow -- fuck,” he said, and ripped the leaves off a branch of a nearby sapling while trying to regain his balance.</p>
<p>Gerry propped him up, looking deeply amused. “I’m so pleased you came.”</p>
<p>“Stuff it,” Jon muttered, brushing himself off, even though he hadn’t really fallen. His toe actually hurt quite a lot, but he still had some dignity to maintain. “You don’t think,” he started, partly because he had been considering it before he tripped and partly to change the subject, “That is, you said fifteenth century, so — Is there a chance this thing originated back then? Maybe as some sort of… Manifestation, connected to the extinction of wolves on the island?”</p>
<p>“It’s gotta be a Hunter,” Gerry agreed enthusiastically. “I think it came about in response to the medieval bounties.”</p>
<p>"Well, they wiped out all the wolves because they were <em>afraid</em> of them, didn’t they,” Jon continued, the excitement of discovery rising in him despite the circumstances. “That’s a powerful fear, if you’re willing to just <em>erase</em> part of the natural landscape- And to hunt something to extinction, that’s a massive <em>drive,</em> isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, and then think about the letdown when they were all gone, you know? The slow realization — No more bounties, no more furs, no more chase.”</p>
<p>“Maybe that’s why it sleeps,” Jon suggested. “There’s some sort of cyclical nature to it, and when someone, something, calls it up, it starts again.”</p>
<p>Gerry nodded. “And keeps going until it runs out of things to hunt, yeah!”</p>
<p>Something occurred to him then, and Jon paused on the trail. “Wait — Hang on, where are we going?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I found it, I think,” Gerry said, remarkably casual given the conversation they’d just had, and beckoned him. “Come on, I’ll show you.”</p>
<p>Jon regarded him, sighed, pressed his palms together, and said, “Gerry. I don’t mean to patronize you, but you do realize this is the — the <em>exact</em> setup of a low-budget horror film, this outing you’ve just coerced me on.”</p>
<p>Gerry threw back his head and laughed; the sun caught his ginger roots. His hair had always been long, shoulder length since Jon met him, but it was finally starting to grow in thicker than it had while he was finishing treatment. “Oh, so now I’m <em>coercing</em> you? I sent the materials, and you’re a big brain. Pretty sure you knew what you were getting into.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Jon said flatly. “A low-budget horror film. Which we just live in, now, apparently.”</p>
<p>“Please. If it was a low-budget horror film, we’d both be about ten years younger, <em>and</em> we’d be idiots.”</p>
<p>Jon raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And instead we are…?”</p>
<p>“Professionals,” Gerry asserted with a grin. “Obviously.”</p>
<p>“Right. Obviously,” Jon sighed, and lengthened his stride to catch up.</p>
<p>It turned out to be a good thing he’d worn trainers. They found the wolf underneath a cramped little outcropping several kilometers into the forest, and at first it seemed as if they’d lucked out, because it was just a weird pile of bones that looked too old, too clean, and too large to have gotten there naturally. “Looks like it’s asleep,” Gerry whispered.</p>
<p>“You mean for good?” Jon asked doubtfully, crouching down beside him.</p>
<p>“I mean for now.” Gerry slung his rucksack off his shoulders and reached in to start rummaging. “So maybe no sudden movements or— ”</p>
<p>But at that point it had already heard them. It clattered to life, larger and bonier than any wolf Jon had ever seen in pictures or in zoos, and with widening eyes he thought he recognized some human bones jumbled in with the rest. <em>We were right,</em> he thought, and then Gerry was yanking him by the back of his coat and they were running.</p>
<p>They didn’t run for very long, all told, but it felt like hours, especially as Jon was not used to moving much faster than a light jog. But even he was pulling ahead of Gerry in a few minutes, who was stumbling and wheezing, dragging something from his rucksack. “Fucking chemo,” he gasped, and then Jon was too far ahead, and the thing was still bloody chasing him somehow. He tried to turn and look behind him, because that’s what people <em>did</em> when they were being chased in stories, but he tripped again before he could even get a decent glimpse and went down hard, skidding in the dirt and dead leaves, scuffing his palms on twigs and gravel when he tried to catch himself.</p>
<p>Jon didn’t even have time to turn over before the bone wolf was on top of him, and for one liquefying instant he felt the phantom of jaws graze the back of his neck. He didn’t think; he just rolled, dodging the snap of one set of teeth by a millimeter. But there were more where that came from, and the best Jon could do was catch the second set of jaws in both hands, holding them closed like he’d once seen a neighbor do to a rambunctious dog. There were more jaws than Jon had hands, though -—</p>
<p>
  <strong>duck</strong>
</p>
<p>He shut his eyes and tried to twist aside, so that his shoulder at least protected his face somewhat. Something whistled through the space above his head, and the bones above him splintered with a spectacular <em>CRUNCH.</em></p>
<p>“HA!” Gerry shouted, and then fell into a fit of dry coughing somewhere off to Jon’s left. Several bones had rained down against his head and shoulders with the blow; Jon shook them off and pushed himself upright, looking around wildly. Gerry was bent over trying to get his wind back, a dented old cricket bat discarded on the ground by his feet. The wolf had been partially smashed, missing one skull and most of what made up its chest and right leg. It was still scrabbling to its feet, however, eerily silent except for the rasp of bone against wood as it levered itself up against a tree, mouths snapping and clicking hollowly. The scattered bones on the ground, some of which were still whole, had started to tremble slightly, like iron filaments as a magnet slowly approaches.</p>
<p>Jon hauled himself upright, still awash with adrenaline, and darted over to pick up the cricket bat. It was small enough to fit in Gerry’s rucksack, but still heavy, and it made a wicked hiss through the air when Jon swung it again, before the bone wolf could manage to stand.</p>
<p>It turned out this was actually part of the plan, more or less; Gerry had brought plastic shrink-wrap, to contain the thing once it was discorporated, and a reusable grocery tote that read: TESCO - WINE BY THE CRATE. Together, they sank down to the forest floor, and began to separate the pile.</p>
<p>After a while of passing bones and cling-wrap back and forth, Gerry ventured, "So, heard you had a visitor in the shop today?"</p>
<p>"Something like that," Jon muttered, limping over to retrieve what looked like a human clavicle for the pile.</p>
<p>"Not a visitor? Not human?" Gerry pulled a jawbone out of the pile and wrapped it in plastic. "You're gonna have to be more specific."</p>
<p>"Not a visitor," he clarified, dropping unceremoniously to the ground in order to start cling-wrapping more of the bones. "An investigator. Bit of a throwback, actually. So — Are we going to put this one in concrete, too, or — ?"</p>
<p>"I think Gertrude's got plans for it, actually. I'll have to check." Gerry glanced up at Jon over the pile of splintered bone. "What was your investigator investigating, exactly?"</p>
<p>"Us, I suspect, which is unfortunate."</p>
<p>Gerry snorted. "For them."</p>
<p>"Well — " Jon broke off with a hiss as he accidentally sliced himself on one of the sharper edges of a broken femur. "He was from the Magnus Institute," he continued, slightly muffled after sticking his finger in his mouth. "And he recognized me."</p>
<p>"Huh," Gerry said, and after a moment's silence: "That a bad thing?"</p>
<p>Jon shrugged. "Maybe? He was asking about Gertrude's book collection, the ones she's got down in the computer under 'George Icarus.' It just <em>happens </em>to correspond to titles missing from their library."</p>
<p>"Not exactly a shocker, but also not what I was asking," Gerry said, but then he stepped away for a moment. He came back with another roll of cling wrap, and the Tesco tote bag; he started packing the wrapped bones into it. "You don't talk much about your institute days," he observed.</p>
<p>"Yes, I wonder why that might be," Jon said tartly.</p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, death and trauma," Gerry said with a little wave of a rib. "But besides that. If I didn't know better I'd think you were dropped off on our doorstep by a stork, full-grown and ranting about inquests and death certificates."</p>
<p>Jon couldn't help pointing out, "Which I was right about."</p>
<p>"Which you were right about. You are the cleverest boy."</p>
<p>"Oh, piss off."</p>
<p>Gerry chuckled, but didn't press the subject. Jon busied himself with collecting all the small bones of the feet and ankles, carefully, so none of them touched; for a while they worked in silence. It wasn't that Jon didn't want to talk about the Institute — except, no, he did <em>not </em>want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about any of it, not with Gerry or with Martin Blackwood, because talking meant dwelling on it and he'd rather … not.</p>
<p>Better to focus on what was in front of him — or currently chasing him — than on things he couldn't change.</p>
<p>Eventually, the bone wolf's remains were packed away, and Gerry sealed the top of the tote with duct tape for good measure. Then he said, quietly, "I just think it might be good for you to talk to someone besides Gertrude and me once in a while."</p>
<p>"Sure," Jon allowed, although at this point he wasn't sure he <em>could </em>talk to anyone besides the two of them without ending up committed. "Though I notice you're not taking your own advice."</p>
<p>Gerry snorted. "Believe me, it's <em>much </em>too late for me. I wouldn't know what to do with a peer group if one snuck up and bit me on the arse. You could still save yourself, though."</p>
<p>Jon sighed. "No, I can't." Not when he knew what was out there, now. Not when he knew he could help. Or Gertrude could, at least, and he could help her. Not without answers — about the deaths at the Institute, about why he survived when so many others did not.</p>
<p>(His thoughts suddenly flashed back to Martin Blackwood. <em>Did you get sick, too? </em>He hadn't been talking about a coma, he hadn't even been in the building at the time of the fire, but —)</p>
<p>Jon pushed the thought away and continued. "And anyway, you could quit, too. Throw us all out, put your mum on a shelf, actually sell books on occasion instead of setting them on fire?"</p>
<p>"Probably die of boredom," Gerry mumbled. "Anyway, I owe Gertrude a debt, for getting Mum sorted. And no way am I leaving you unattended with her."</p>
<p>"Since when have <em>you </em>been the voice of reason here?" Jon meant it as a joke, mostly because he thought Gerry had meant his comment as a joke. But Gerry was frowning, eyes fixed in the middle distance, and something in Jon's stomach fell. "What? Are you — don't you trust us?"</p>
<p>"I trust you," he said. "Her … you know she's all about the work, Jon."</p>
<p>"It's rather important work," Jon pointed out uneasily.</p>
<p>Gerry shrugged. "Not saying it isn't. Just saying. It's not like she trusts us, either — unless she's told you who 'George Icarus' really is?"</p>
<p>"I just assumed it was a code for the records," Jon admitted. "You think there's an actual person?"</p>
<p>"Dunno. Probably." Gerry stood up and stretched; his back cracked loudly. "But I don't think she'll tell us, either way. Not unless it suits her purposes."</p>
<p>"Maybe she wants us to have plausible deniability," Jon pointed out, seeing as someone had, in fact, come asking about those books.</p>
<p>"Sure," Gerry said. "Just saying, keep her priorities in mind. And yours."</p>
<p>Together, they hoisted the tote between them and headed in the direction of the nearest bus stop. With any luck, they wouldn't even be the oddest looking things on it.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Spy Stuff in St. James Park</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin has a normal day at work. Jon returns a phone call.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin did end up going straight home after visiting Pinhole Books, telling himself he was entitled to a bit of a break, and he'd make it up by going in early the next morning. Naturally that meant he left his phone on silent and ended up running through the empty, echoing halls of the Magnus Institute at half past nine, praying nobody had come looking for him yet.</p><p>He skidded through the office door, almost stumbling, and Sasha immediately pounced on him. "Where'd you disappear to yesterday?" she asked, before Martin had even got his jacket off.</p><p>"I told you," Martin protested, a bit breathless. "That bookshop in Morden."</p><p>"You left before two o'clock," she shot back; she was tapping a pen on the desk absently with one hand. "It's <em>maybe </em>an hour to get there, if traffic is bad, so unless you spent over an hour in a used bookshop—"</p><p>She was interrupted by a balled-up sticky note that bounced off the corner of her glasses. Tim, the source of the projectile, didn't even flinch when Sasha glared at him. "Knock it off, Sherlock," he said. "Martin's allowed to skive off a bit if he wants to."</p><p>"I was just — concerned," Sasha said, with a little bit of a pout.</p><p>Martin immediately felt guilty. Everyone had coped in their own way, after the fire: for Sasha, that just happened to mean keeping close tabs on everyone else, their whereabouts and general well-being, to a degree that sometimes bordered on intrusive. But who could blame her? Those first few hours of trying to sort out who had survived (if anyone had survived) had been excruciating: Martin had just popped out for lunch, but Sasha had been laid up with food poisoning, Rosie had been at the dentist, Tim had been sleeping off a hangover — they hadn't known what was happening until much later, until the frantic calls and texts had started, until the police started knocking on doors.</p><p>"I should've texted you," Martin said, downcast, adding his jacket to the wobbly coat rack in the corner.</p><p>Sasha looked mollified, but she still said, "No, Tim's right, I shouldn't be nosy." She was tapping her pen a little faster.</p><p>The three of them had claimed an office on the ground floor, close to the library; or rather, Tim and Sasha had claimed it, and invited Martin to take the third desk when he was nominally transferred from the library to (the remnants of) Research. There was just enough room for them to be cozy without being crowded, a pleasant contrast from the echoing expanses of the rest of the building. As Martin checked the status of the kettle, Tim asked, "How was your bookshop trip, anyway? Any progress?"</p><p>"Not really." Martin switched the kettle back on to boil and dug into his desk for tea. "Oh! Though I did run into someone I wasn't expecting. D'you remember Jonathan Sims?"</p><p>Sasha's pen abruptly froze. "Jon Sims from here? From Research?"</p><p>"Yeah!" The kettle clicked off, and Martin filled his mug. "Turns out that's where he's working now. The bookshop, I mean. I hardly recognized him."</p><p>"Oh, good for him," Tim said absent, turning back to his desk.</p><p>Sasha, however, leaned forward on her elbows. "That can't be right. I tried calling him after the fire, more than once, and he never answered."</p><p>"Well, he's not — he wasn't a <em>ghost </em>or anything," Martin scoffed. Then he actually considered it. "I don't think so, at least? He used a computer—"</p><p>"Besides," Tim said firmly, "people screen their calls, Sash. If he wanted out of here after what happened, do you really blame him?"</p><p>She didn't answer that, just sort of chewed her lip with a calculating look in her eye. "What was the name of the shop, again?" she asked Martin.</p><p>"Pinhole Books," he told her. "They've got a website, but I don't remember his name being on it."</p><p>Sasha started tapping away at her computer, and for a few moments everything in the office was quiet. Martin sent a polite email to George Icarus at the address Jon had given him, and did some cursory investigation of the name, but didn't come up with much. Funny how people with incredibly niche specialities involving rare and expensive goods didn't feel the need to advertise themselves online.</p><p>He was digging into the inventory of another rare book dealer when Sasha suddenly gasped. "Look at this," she blurted, turning her laptop around.</p><p>It was a photo from the website of Pinhole Books: Martin recognized it, mostly because the site had about five photos in total. This was a close-up of a very old map in a glass case, although the picture was oddly cropped and the glare on the glass made it hard to see the details. "What are we looking at?" Tim asked, brow furrowed.</p><p>"The reflection," Sasha prompted, and pointed at the corner of the photo.</p><p>Martin rolled his chair closer to her desk and squinted. Sure enough, with the screen tilted at just the right angle, he could make out a face reflected in the glass. "That's … Gertrude, I think?" he said. "She was the one I talked to on the phone—"</p><p>Sasha blinked at him. "Martin, that's <em>Gertrude Robinson. </em>She was the Head Archivist here before the fire!"</p><p>"Bullshit," Tim said, and came over to look, while Martin tried to furiously remember — he'd met the head archivist, right? At some point? He had a vague mental image of a little old lady bundled up in cardigans, which couldn't have been further from the steely-eyed matriarch he'd met yesterday. And it was a common enough name, wasn't it?</p><p>"I'm telling you, it's her," Sasha insisted, while Tim made equivocal noises.</p><p>Martin shrugged. "I guess? Maybe that's how Jon got that job?"</p><p>"It's just … odd, is all." Sasha started tapping her pen against the desk again. "Six months gone and this is the first I've heard of either of them surviving."</p><p>"Maybe they just really wanted to disappear," Tim said. "Doesn't have to be a conspiracy or anything."</p><p>Sasha cocked an eyebrow at him. "They just 'disappeared' to a bookshop that's selling titles from the Institute's library?"</p><p>"Hey," Martin said. "That's not — Jon gave me the name of their supplier. He's helping."</p><p>"He is, is he?" Sasha said meaningfully.</p><p>"Yes, he is." Martin wasn't even sure why he felt so defensive about it. Maybe just because Jon had been sad and grey and quiet, and had taken Martin's number when he offered it. "I don't think we should accuse them of anything on — on circumstantial evidence."</p><p>There was a long beat of weirdly tense silence, and then Sasha said, "Of course not. Just—" She took a deep breath. "Just be careful, all right?"</p><p>"Of course I'm careful," Martin said blankly, but Sasha didn't respond, just turned her laptop back around and bent over it. Martin glanced at Tim, wondering if perhaps he'd missed something; Tim made eye contact, and shook his head slightly.</p><p>So Martin went back to his own desk, and drank his tea, and spent a few more hours calling rare book dealers around London and e-mailing strangers from eBay. He wasn't even certain what he was supposed to do if he found the missing books — call the police? The Institute could barely afford to keep its current skeleton staff paid; he doubted the director would authorize hundreds of pounds per book to just buy them back. Maybe he should look up the laws regarding receipt of stolen property—</p><p>Sasha made a disgruntled noise and stood up. "Wish me luck," she declared. "I'm on a mission to Artefact Storage."</p><p>"Ooh, sounds like a laugh," Tim said, pulling out one of his earbuds. "What's the objective?"</p><p>She waved a manila folder at him; a piece of half-burned paper was poking out. "Something about a circus calliope. If it's the same one that's in Storage, there might be more details there, or at least a name for the statement giver."</p><p>"Knock on wood," Tim said, and rapped a knuckle against his own forehead for emphasis. Sasha laughed. "If you're not back in an hour, we'll be sure to send a rescue party."</p><p>"Much obliged!" she called over her shoulder.</p><p>Martin waited a few minutes after the door was shut, to be sure she was really gone. Then he turned towards Tim, who hadn't put his ear bud back in. "Hey. Is … is Sasha okay?"</p><p>Tim sighed, face falling. "No, Martin. None of us are okay. We still work here, don't we?"</p><p>"You know that's not what I meant."</p><p>"I know." He fell silent for a moment, eyes focused in the middle distance. "She's just — she's got this theory, and I can't talk her out of it, so we sort of just agreed to not bring it up. But I can tell it's still eating at her."</p><p>"What 'theory'?"</p><p>Tim grimaced. "Sasha doesn't think the fire was an accident."</p><p>Martin came dangerously close to saying some really stupid, such as <em>what fire? </em>But of course there was only one fire that mattered, wasn't there? "She — seriously?" he blurted. "How? I mean, who would do that? Why?"</p><p>"Don't ask me," Tim said, putting his hands up. "I think it's bullshit, and I told her so. But I'll bet anything that's why she got all intense earlier about your bookshop friends. So just … maybe don't bring it up again?"</p><p>"I'd hardly call them <em>friends</em>," Martin pointed out, but Tim just kept looking at him until he said, "Right, okay. No encouraging conspiracy theories. It's not like I'm likely to go back there any time soon."</p><p>But as he turned back to his computer, he noticed a new message in his email inbox. <em>Delivery status notification (failure), </em>the subject read, and when he opened it up, it said: <em>delivery to the following recipient failed permanently. The email account that you tried to reach does not exist.</em></p><p>It was his message to George Icarus.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>Martin tried retyping the address a few times, moving the dots around, things like that. He dug up the scrap of paper and peered at Jon Sims' crabbed little letters, to see if he'd accidentally spelled something wrong. He hadn't, unless he was really reading it incorrectly, or Jon had written it down wrong.</p><p>Or maybe he'd written exactly what he meant to…</p><p>No. <em>Stop it, </em>he told himself, glancing at Sasha's empty desk. The police would've figured it out if the fire had been set on purpose. Just because Jon and Gertrude (if she even <em>was </em>the same Gertrude) hadn't contacted anybody didn't mean there was anything <em>nefarious </em>about them. It was probably a coincidence. It was probably a mistake. He should just call them back and get the correct information. It would be fine.</p><p>Right?</p>
<hr/><p>After dragging various bits of bone wolf back to the shop, Jon fell into bed and slept like the dead until nearly noon. When he eventually dragged himself to consciousness, he found everyone else already gathered in the kitchen. Gerry was munching away loudly on a bowl of corn flakes, looking no more alert than Jon felt; Gertrude had a cup of tea and a stack of grainy photocopies. Mary was perched, vulture-like, on a stepstool in the corner, and she grinned as Jon shuffled over to the counter in search of caffeine and toast. "There you are," she cooed. "I've been waiting for you to get up."</p><p>That couldn't possibly be good, but Jon wasn't alert enough to manage more than a vaguely interrogative grunt. It wasn't that Mary no longer unsettled him — when Gerry had first explained that his mother was a book and also <em>dead, </em>Jon hadn't been able to sleep for days. But he'd grown accustomed to the risk, much as he supposed people who live on fault lines get used to shaking walls from time to time.</p><p>"Someone called the shop looking for you," Mary continued. "I told him you couldn't come to the phone, of course. Wouldn't want to interrupt your beauty sleep."</p><p>"Get to the <em>point, </em>mum," Gerry growled, before shoving another bite of cereal into his mouth.</p><p>"Oh, there's no point," she insisted. "Just that <em>Martin </em>wants our Jonathan to call him back when he's able."</p><p>Jon shoved two slices of bread into the toaster, pressed the lever down, and stared into the slots until he was able to process that statement. "Martin who?"</p><p>Mary gasped, one withered hand pressed to her chest, a charming bit of theatre for a being that didn't actually need to breathe. "Why, Jonathan! I'm surprised at you. He said he gave you his number and everything."</p><p>Gerry coughed, loudly, on his cereal, as Jon finally put two and two together. "He said — Oh. Right. Martin, erm, Martin Blackwood?"</p><p>"Our visitor from the Magnus Institute," Gertrude said, somehow simultaneously a question and a threat.</p><p>"Right," Jon said. His face was getting warmer; why was his face getting warmer. "He did, ah, leave a contact number with me, after we talked, but—" The sound of the toaster popping took him by surprise; he jolted, losing the thread of his sentence.</p><p>"You didn't mention collecting any phone numbers," Gerry said, teasingly. "Good for you."</p><p>Jon groaned, burying his face in his hands. "It's not like we're … he's not … I'm not <em>in cahoots </em>with him," he sputtered.</p><p>"Would that you were," Gertrude grumbled, without looking up from her reading material.</p><p>Jon's brain, briefly, stopped. He opened his mouth, but words did not seem to be happening for the moment.</p><p>Fortunately, Gerry was there to back him up. "Gertrude!" he scolded, despite literally having just made the same joke. "What are you suggesting here?"</p><p>"Merely that we could use a contact within the Institute," she said blandly. "And young Mr. Blackwood might be more amenable to helping us if he has some sort of emotional investment."</p><p>Mary cackled. "And you think Jonathan ought to be our Mata Hari? Gertrude, I didn't think you told jokes."</p><p>"Don't make me dismiss you," Gertrude said icily; Mary just wafted out of the room, sniggering.</p><p>"And <em>anyway," </em>Jon managed to say, as his brain kicked into gear again. "Anyway, I don't <em>want </em>any sort of 'emotional investment' with — with that place." He remembered his toast and started buttering it furiously. "Besides, what if he recognizes you? Aren't you supposed to be laying low?"</p><p>"He did not recognize me," Gertrude shot back. "And likely wouldn't have recognized you if you hadn't blurted it out at him, but that's neither here nor there."</p><p>Jon opened his mouth to protest that, but Gerry cut in. "I thought you already had someone on the inside there? No need for Jon to go about seducing anyone."</p><p>"I'm not <em>seducing—!" </em></p><p>Gertrude ignored his spluttering; she said, "Many hands make light work," which wasn't technically an answer at all, and instantly made Jon more annoyed with her. She continued, "Obviously I would never ask you to step out of your comfort zone—"</p><p>Gerry brayed with laughter.</p><p>Gertrude's lips thinned slightly, and she tried again. "I will not ask you to pursue Mr. Blackwood, if you genuinely object. But I do think he could be useful to us in the future."</p><p>"Yeah, you've always got an eye out for fresh meat, haven't you?" Gerry said, tone suddenly acidic.</p><p>Gertrude raised a sharp eyebrow at him. “Are you going to finish your cereal, Gerard, or argue with me until it gets soggy?”</p><p>Gerry threw down his spoon and stalked out of the kitchen, mumbling something about opening up the shop for the day. That merely left Jon alone with Gertrude and his toast, which he realized he'd rather mangled.</p><p>"I'm going to go up on the roof," he declared, before she could give him any further advice, and fled.</p><p>Jon wasn't entirely certain they were meant to have rooftop access, though there also didn't seem to be anyone stopping them. The two-storey part of the building stretched along London Road, a barren plain of tar paper studded occasionally with chimneys or antennas, or the raised trap doors that led inside. Gerry, at some point, had put down a cheap carpet above Pinhole Books, and set up a couple of camp chairs and a faded beach umbrella. It was mostly a place to smoke without risk to the books, and though Jon had quit years ago, he felt it wasn't unfair to occasionally lapse, considering what his daily life had become.</p><p>He lit a cigarette now, mostly to stall. Then he took out his phone. He'd saved Martin's number in his contacts for efficiency's sake, because a tiny scrap of paper was too easily lost. Not because he'd ever actually intended to <em>use </em>it, no matter what Gertrude thought about it. Or Gerry, for that matter.</p><p>Martin answered on the third ring. <em>"Hullo?"</em></p><p>"Er — hi," Jon said, belatedly realizing he should've come up with some sort of a plan for this. "M-Martin, this is Martin Blackwood, right?"</p><p>
  <em>"Yes? Er, sorry, who is—"</em>
</p><p>"Jonathan Sims. I- it's- you called the shop, earlier, for me?"</p><p>
  <em>"Oh! Oh, yeah, thanks for getting back to me. I, er, I wasn't — was that Mary, on the phone earlier?"</em>
</p><p>"Yes. Yes. She's — a lot. Sorry about that."</p><p><em>"No, no, it's fine." </em>There was a faint background noise over the line, footsteps and possibly a door shutting. <em>"I just, ah, I was just calling back because the email address you gave me? For George Icarus? It, ah, it doesn't seem to be working, so I was wondering if you could just confirm for me … that it works?"</em></p><p>Shit. Jon didn't even remember what he'd written down. "I, ah, well, that's the only address we have for him, so I'm not sure why it wouldn't work," he stammered.</p><p>
  <em>"No, I mean, just — I'm probably entering it wrong, or something, it's probably my fault—"</em>
</p><p>A complex mixture of guilt and relief blossomed in Jon's chest, and were probably responsible for the next words that came out of his mouth. "I'll see if I can get in touch with him on my end?"</p><p>
  <em>"Oh — I mean, would you?"</em>
</p><p>Damn, damn, damn. "Of course." Jon stubbed out his cigarette so he could bury his face in his free hand. "Maybe he's just … changed his website or something." That was a thing that happened, right?</p><p>
  <em>"Yeah. Yeah, I'd appreciate that. I mean, not that you have to—"</em>
</p><p>"It's no trouble," Jon said, because he was an idiot. "I'll have a word with Gertrude and get back to you."</p><p>
  <em>"Great. Great! Thanks a lot, Jon."</em>
</p><p>They said their goodbyes, Jon hung up and then he swore into his hands for a bit. Maybe he should just fling himself down the stairs now and get it over with? Better than continuing to drag out this … this <em>farce </em>of an interaction, as he was now obligated to do, because if Martin didn't get a call back from him he might come round the shop again … or, dammit, now he had Jon's mobile number, didn't he? So Jon had to tell him something, and it had to be convincing, or else he'd keep snooping. And if he kept snooping, he'd <em>have </em>to recognize Gertrude eventually, and might look up the inquest results just as Jon had done, and then, well…</p><p><em>(Fresh meat, </em>Gerry had said, and after their conversation last night Jon had an idea what he meant by that. Jon had agreed to keep Gertrude's secrets. Would Martin do the same? What if he didn't...?)</p><p>He needed more than a cigarette for that kind of thinking. Reluctantly, Jon pocketed his phone and went back inside after his neglected toast. Gertrude was still sat at the table, solid as a statue, though she'd finished her tea. "Come have a look at this," she said, as Jon collected lukewarm bits of greasy bread off the counter.</p><p>Jon peered over her shoulder. She was holding up a newspaper article, apparently printed off microfilm — the date was 1934. Next to the text was a grainy photograph of an old diving suit, the sort with a riveted steel helmet and tubes sticking out in every direction. <em>Forty Year Old Shipwreck Found off Isle of Scilly - Steamship </em>Chiswick <em>To Be Explored, Possibly Raised. </em>"Am I to assume the wreck was not, in fact, raised?" Jon asked.</p><p>"The ship exploring the wreck was lost with all hands," Gertrude informed him. "Which makes it interesting that this exact diving suit eventually reappeared for sale in Penzance, after the war."</p><p>Deep water, lost ships … "Is it Buried again?" Jon asked. "Because I'm not going into any more crates."</p><p>"I rather suspect the Vast this time, actually." She closed the file with a snap. "I've acquired the bonnet, but the other pieces of the suit have been scattered. I want you and Gerard searching for them while I work out a banishing ritual."</p><p>"Wonderful," Jon muttered, taking the file in his free hand. "You know how much I love spelunking through overpriced rubbish."</p><p>Gertrude didn't even deign to acknowledge him as she bustled out of the kitchen. If Jon were lucky, Gerry would at least split the leg work with him, but most of the time he stuck to the electronic side of things — the perks of having distinctive tattoos and a criminal history, he always said, though just as often it was the lingering side-effects of chemotherapy that kept him at home. Which meant Jon got the privilege of following up in person, picking through shelves worth of things that somehow became expensive simply by being old. Delightful.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin waited the rest of the day for Jon to call back; he spent the time constructing elaborate mental arguments both for and against the proposition that Jon and/or Gertrude were the real book thieves, which was hideously unproductive and mostly made him anxious.</p><p>He was actually on his way home when Jon texted him. <em>I think it best if we meet in person. St. James Park, noon tomorrow?</em></p><p>Martin stared at his phone, wondering if Jon actually wanted to act out a Cold War spy novel, or if there had just been some kind of massive miscommunication along the way. Either option wasn't exactly lending a lot of support to his <em>not a book thief </em>argument. <em>Sure, </em>he texted back anyway. It would be a nice excuse to get out of the building over lunch.</p><p>He ran a bit late, mostly due to over-estimating his own walking speed. Jon was waiting for him at the end of the bridge, looking just as gray and sleep-deprived as he had back at the bookshop. His coat was open, revealing an oversized Amon Amarth t-shirt. "Sorry!" Martin called as he jogged the last few steps. "Sorry, didn't mean to keep you waiting."</p><p>"It's fine," Jon said, pocketing his phone. "Ah. How — how are you?"</p><p>He said it warily, like he wasn't even sure it was the right question to ask. "Er, fine?" Martin said. "Not exactly busy times at the Institute these days, you know?"</p><p>"I — yes, I suppose not." Jon glanced around. "We should — do you want to sit? I think there's more benches that way."</p><p>"Sitting's fine," Martin said, even though he'd rather been looking forward to stretching his legs. "Let's go … sit."</p><p>"Right."</p><p>Jon led the way down the path; signs helpfully informed them that they were walking toward Duck Island. Walking together in total silence was bearable for approximately thirty seconds, after which Martin desperately tried to come up with a joke to break the awkwardness. "So. Is this where you reveal you're actually MI-6?"</p><p>"What?" Jon asked, looking baffled.</p><p>Martin gestured at the park. "Y'know. Spy stuff in St. James Park. Like in films?"</p><p>"Oh." Jon blinked. "I — er. I don't watch. Films." He cringed, as if disgusted by the words coming out of his own mouth. "I was scouting some antiques shops in Mayfair, and I thought this was marginally more convenient to the Institute."</p><p>"Oh." Now Martin felt foolish, but, well, that wasn't exactly new territory for him, was it? "Looking for new stock?"</p><p>"Something like that," Jon said. "Nautical salvage is apparently an entire sub-field of the antiques trade, did you know?"</p><p>Martin had not known, any more than he knew what a book dealer would possibly be doing looking at nautical salvage. "I guess it makes sense? Everybody needs a specialty."</p><p>They found an empty bench, eventually. Jon sat hunched over, elbows on knees, fidgeting with his hands instead of looking at Martin. "So. Er. George Icarus."</p><p>"Were you able to get in touch with him?" Martin asked, though at this point he was pretty firmly anticipating a <em>no. </em>Otherwise why bother meeting up?</p><p>"No," Jon said. Pause. "Actually, to tell you the truth, I've never — Gertrude is the only one who really talks to him."</p><p>"So has she—" Martin paused as his brain caught up to his mouth. Was Jon hinting at something? Oh, Jesus, were they actually doing some kind of spy stuff here? "Er. I mean. That's … interesting."</p><p>Jon nodded. "Yes. I suppose …" He trailed off, fingers fluttering against his knee.</p><p>When it was clear Jon wasn't going to finish his sentence, Martin decided to push a bit. "Gertrude used to — I mean, didn't she used to work for the Institute as well?"</p><p>Jon nodded. "Yes. That was … how I got hired at Pinhole, in a manner of speaking."</p><p>So Sasha had been right about that. "Did you ask her to call—" Martin started to ask.</p><p>At the same moment, Jon blurted out, "I wanted to ask you about—"</p><p>They both froze, staring at one another. "Sorry, go on?" Martin said.</p><p>"No, you were first."</p><p>"It's fine, I interrupted you!"</p><p>Jon nodded, looking down at his hands again. "I wanted to ask you about … you said people fell ill, after the fire?"</p><p>Martin nodded. Just remembering it made him shudder. "Yeah, I felt like death warmed over for like a week afterwards. Which is weird, right? I didn't think CO2 exposure worked like that?"</p><p>"Do you know for certain that it was CO2 exposure?" Jon asked.</p><p>Something cold settled in Martin's stomach. "I … what else would it be? That's what the police said, isn't it?"</p><p>Jon shrugged. "I was just wondering if anyone saw a doctor about it."</p><p>"Why, did you?"</p><p>For some reason, Jon chuckled darkly. "Yes, actually, I did." He stood up. "I suppose I shouldn't monopolize your lunch break like this. I have more antiquing to do, anyway."</p><p>Martin frowned, because Jon hadn't actually <em>told </em>him anything — or maybe he had, and Martin just wasn't clever enough to read between the lines? "Do you like it? Antiquing?" he asked inanely, just to keep the conversation going while he tried to figure out what, if anything, he'd just learned.</p><p>Jon huffed. "Mostly I sit in awe at the miracle of depreciation that allows something to lose so much practical value it becomes more expensive than when it was new."</p><p>Was that a joke? Martin had no idea if that was a joke or not. "I mean, that's the fun bit, isn't it?" he tried hesitantly. "Hunting down something really cool among all the rubbish?"</p><p>"I — oh." Jon was cringing a bit again. "I, ah, I suppose you're a fan?"</p><p>"I mean, real <em>antiques </em>aren't really in my price range," Martin admitted. "But like, vintage shops? Even charity shops sometimes have good stuff if you dig for long enough. And, I dunno, it's fun just to look sometimes?"</p><p>Jon looked for a moment like he was doing arithmetic in his head. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his coat. "Martin, I have a proposition for you."</p><p>Oh, Christ, this was where the spy stuff started, wasn't it? Or criminal stuff? "I," Martin stammered, despite a total absence of meaningful words from his head, "I, I'm really, you really don't—"</p><p>But Jon was unfolding a piece of printed paper — a photograph? "I don't — I haven't met George Icarus, like I said. But I might be able to find out more. If you can help us find this."</p><p>It was a photo of an antique diving suit, the sort with a bulbous steel helmet and heavy canvas body. No wonder Jon had been looking at nautical salvage. "You're looking for this in Mayfair?" Martin asked.</p><p>"Gerry found something online," Jon said, a shade defensive, and there was that name again, <em>Gerry. </em>"The pieces of the suit were separated at some point; we have the bonnet, and I think we've got a line on the boots, but the other parts are still missing. If you're willing to help me look for those, then I'll see what I can get Gertrude to give up about George Icarus."</p><p>There were so many questions Martin could ask about this arrangement, chief among them being <em>what do rare book dealers want with a diving suit, </em>but the more immediate and salient being: "I don't — she's your boss, isn't she? I don't want to get you in any trouble?"</p><p>Jon looked confused for a moment, and then actually laughed. "'Boss' is — no, I wouldn't call her my boss. And I know what I'm doing." A pause. "At least, I think so."</p><p>"Well, that makes one of us," Martin said.</p><p>"Will you help me look for this absurd nautical relic or not?" Jon asked. "Because if not, then I believe we're through here."</p><p>And there it was. Because Martin hadn't gotten any other meaningful leads on the missing books except through Pinhole, which meant either he went back to the director empty-handed, or … "Fine," he said. "I'll go antiquing for you."</p><p>"Good. Excellent." And just like that, Jon was nervous again, tucking the photograph back into his jacket. "I'll text you the details? Or if you want to text me your email address—"</p><p>"Yeah, okay," Martin said, wondering just what the hell he'd gotten into.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Mind Games</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin takes Jon to visit a thrift shop. Gerry has a chat with Gertrude.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was one thing to promise Martin information on George Icarus, but quite another to actually obtain it. Given that Gerry and Gertrude both could walk in at any time — and that they expected him to be out following up leads on the suit — Jon was limited in both range and duration of investigation.</p><p>One place he could always start was the office: he had plenty of reasons to be back there during his shifts minding the shopfront. The books from Martin's list, and a few others besides, were all in the inventory tagged <em>George Icarus, </em>with a date of purchase and a sale price. The prices he knew to be fake, since they were stolen from the Institute, but he couldn't find any pattern in them that would suggest they had a coded meaning. The dates of purchase at least seemed to match the actual date of acquisition, and they began in March — which made sense, since that was when Gertrude lost her legitimate access to the Institute's library.</p><p>Out of curiosity, he peeked into the shop's accounting, which Gerry insisted on doing with a copy of Quickbooks even older than the computer itself. They brought in enough revenue through the shop to keep bodies and souls together (or in Mary's case, ghost and … page?) though he doubted anyone had ever gotten rich on the rare book trade. There were carefully annotated columns of expenses: utilities and mortgage, wages and insurance, expenses for that book fair in Wales where they'd spent half the time prowling for new stock and half the time dealing with a Stranger-aligned copy of <em>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra….</em></p><p>Wait a minute.</p><p>The books they meant to sell rather than burn or encase in concrete were clearly classified as <em>product. </em>When it came to Leitners or some other artefact, there was a separate <em>acquisitions </em>category (or sometimes <em>petty cash, </em>but Gerry insisted they couldn't use that one too often or Inland Revenue would be after him for money laundering). Usually they brought other materials — such as the concrete — out of their own wages, to avoid any difficult-to-explain purchases on the shop's records.</p><p>But there were three entries in the ledger marked <em>consulting fees. </em>The idea of Gerry actually consulting someone on any aspect of running the shop was plainly laughable, so who was the consultant?</p><p>On a hunch, Jon cross-referenced the payments against the book list. The amounts matched three of the "purchases" from George Icarus, and the dates were within a day.</p><p>Hmmm.</p><p>He didn't bring it up with Gerry immediately; he didn't want him to think Jon was accusing him of anything, and also he wasn't sure if there was a way to raise the question without admitting to snooping on the computer. He ultimately decided, though, that the bookkeeping wasn't technically a secret — regardless of what the paperwork might say, Gerry was his friend, not his boss. They were all in this together.</p><p>So the next time they were up on the roof, idly smoking and waiting for something horrible to finish dissolving in a bucket, Jon cleared his throat. "Gerry? Can I ask you something?"</p><p>Gerry smirked at him and blew smoke out his nostrils. "I don't know, can you?"</p><p>Jon rolled his eyes. Right. No use trying to be polite with some people. "I'm … I've been trying to find more information on George Icarus."</p><p>That clearly wasn't the conversation Gerry had been expecting; his smile slipped, and one eyebrow went up. "Oh? Any particular reason?"</p><p>Jon shrugged. "You said you don't know, either. That got me curious."</p><p>"Any this wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Mr. Blackwood from the Magnus Institute?"</p><p>"How did you know?" Jon asked, stomach falling.</p><p>Gerry snorted. "I <em>didn't, </em>so thanks for telling me." He took a last puff from his cigarette and then tossed the butt into an old coffee can they kept up here for that purpose. "But you've been … I dunno, distracted these past couple of weeks. Was wondering if Gertrude had persuaded you to go all Mata Hari after all."</p><p><em>"Please </em>don't put it that way," Jon groaned. "I'm not — it isn't — I thought you said I needed to talk to people! Besides you and Gertrude, I mean."</p><p>"I did," Gerry admitted. "Although I was thinking more, I dunno, joining a bird watching group or something. Not running your own, separate investigations into the uncanny."</p><p>Jon huffed at the bird watching comment. "He's helping me look for the diving suit," Jon said. "Helping a lot, actually. Apparently he <em>likes </em>antique shops."</p><p>"Oh, well, good for him," Gerry said in a sing-song voice. "And in return you're his inside man on the stolen books?"</p><p>Jon hadn't thought of it that way, and now that he realized — but no, this was about Icarus, not the shop. Their records were sufficiently fragmentary that they had plausible deniability. Right? "I just — I wanted to know," Jon stuttered. "And if I do find something, I can decide whether or not to share it based on how incriminating it is for us, right?"</p><p>Gerry gave him a side-eye. "Really not the person to be asking that question, mate. Especially since you've already agreed to it."</p><p>Jon sighed, and buried his face in his hands — well, the one not currently wrapped in bandages, anyway. "I'm not going to get us into any trouble," he insisted.</p><p>In return, Gerry gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I'm sure it'll be fine. So what's your question?"</p><p>Question? Right. Jon gathered his scattered thoughts, which now seemed far less important than the possibility that Martin was going to have them all arrested. He explained, haltingly, about the "consulting fees" and the match to the Icarus books.</p><p>Gerry frowned and cocked his head to the side. "I … maybe remember those? I think? I know Gertrude asked for the cash, and that seemed like the easiest way to document it."</p><p>"Did she say why she needed it?" Jon asked.</p><p>He wasn't surprised, however, when Gerry's face fell. "Sorry. Cancer ate it."</p><p>"It's fine." Jon awkwardly patted the back of Gerry's hand; Gerry pulled back, folding his hands in his lap. "Look, if she'd told you George Icarus' real identity, I imagine it would've made more of an impression."</p><p>"Not like we have any way of knowing, do we?" Gerry muttered, scowling. "Stupid fucking chemo brain."</p><p>"Careful," Jon said, aiming for a jocular tone. "I happen to hold that brain in very high regard."</p><p>Gerry huffed a bit, and stood. "You really shouldn't."</p><p>He checked on the contents of the thing in the bucket (an extraordinarily violent knife that had nearly taken Jon's finger off) and Jon took it as a cue to change the subject. He picked at his bandage for a bit before he landed on something. "Martin has been helpful, though. He thinks he's found the actual suit component of the diving suit — we'll need to check it out, obviously, but he says there's a vintage shop in the East End that's mistaken it for a regular coverall."</p><p>"Seems unlikely," Gerry said, sealing the bucket again, "but okay, worth a shot. You want me to come along?"</p><p>"Hardly seems necessary," Jon pointed out. "Either it's the right suit or it isn't. I'd go alone, honestly, but Martin's apparently endeared himself to the sales clerk already, so maybe he can get us a deal."</p><p>"Seems like a very sociable guy, this Martin Blackwood," Gerry observed.</p><p>"Bit like a Labrador in that regard," Jon said.</p><p>Gerry cackled at that. "Wow. Is there any greater insult coming from you?"</p><p>"Hey!" Jon protested. "I don't have a problem with dogs. They have many fine and useful qualities. I just … generally prefer them to have those qualities at a respectful distance."</p><p>"Right. Sure." Gerry fiddled with his crumpled pack of cigarettes but didn't light a new one. "Says the guy who ran away from a Yorkie."</p><p>"It was supposed to be on a lead!"</p><p>"It weighed seven pounds!"</p><p>Joking around with Gerry — even if he was being roasted — was something Jon genuinely enjoyed. As strange as his life had become over the past few months, this, at least, was an island of normalcy, something he could orient himself around. He didn't plan on losing it.</p><p>But he also couldn't help but ask, once they'd confirmed the contents of the bucket had been reduce to a slurry of blood-red rust and vinegar — "There's something else Martin mentioned to me. Erm. Not about the books or the suit."</p><p>Gerry glanced up. "Yeah?"</p><p>Jon took a deep breath. "He said … he brought up the fire at the Institute. He said that he got sick afterwards."</p><p>Was Jon imagining it, or did Gerry's hand briefly freeze where he was stirring the contents of the bucket? "He did, did he?"</p><p>"He said they all did, everyone who wasn't in the building that day." The words came out in a tumble, now that he was voicing them; voicing all the thoughts that had been lurking in the back of his head ever since Martin brought it up. "That's — it's not related, is it? To the fire?"</p><p><em>To me? </em>was the unspoken question, but he wasn't sure he was ready to ask that.</p><p>"Dunno," Gerry said, but he was looking into the bucket, not at Jon. "Gertrude might, if you want to bring it up with her. She always was more of an expert on that place than I was, obviously."</p><p>"But it is related, isn't it?" Jon asked. "It has to be. If people who weren't anywhere near the building were falling ill, it can't have just been the gas—"</p><p>Gerry interrupted him by striking the lid of the bucket with a rubber mallet, locking it in place. They'd talked about dumping it, once the knife was fully dissolved; Gertrude had recommended somewhere downstream of the Thames Barrier. When he was done, he stood and stretched. "Maybe it was. Probably. Hard to say for sure. Did he say how long it lasted?"</p><p>"A week." The days he'd spent lying in a coma in King's College Hospital, in other words, insensate to the world but miraculously alive. "Maybe … d'you think I just <em>missed </em>it?"</p><p>Gerry shrugged. "You've got weird luck."</p><p>"Understatement of the fucking year." Jon stood and arched his back, listening for the hollow <em>pop </em>that meant he'd been sat in one place for too long. Not that that had been a frequent problem since he left the Institute. "I think I'm going to turn in early."</p><p>"Suit yourself," Gerry said, and began maneuvering the bucket through the trap door back into the building.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin had waited to tell Jon anything until he was absolutely certain he had the right boiler suit — or, well, not a boiler suit, obviously, but something capable of masquerading as one — and yet he was still unaccountably nervous about actually showing his work. He assumed it was some sort of carry-over effect: it had been over two weeks since he'd started looking for the missing books, and so far Jon's offer to trade was his only lead, and … well, surely the director was going to start asking questions? Eventually? And it wasn't like Martin could show <em>him </em>a boiler suit that wasn't actually a boiler suit and call it progress...</p><p>They met outside the second-hand shop after work on a Friday, though Jon looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. Either that, or he was getting ready to cosplay Albert Einstein. Martin waved to him from the other side of the street, and Jon, after a bit of bleary blinking, gave a cursory wave back. In doing so, he revealed a huge white bandage covering most of his left hand, before it disappeared back into his pocket.</p><p>"Are you all right?" Martin asked as he approached.</p><p>Jon barely seemed to register the question. "Hmm? Oh, I'm fine. You?"</p><p>"No," Martin stammered, "I mean, well, yes, I'm fine, but — your <em>hand —"</em></p><p>"Eh?" Jon actually looked at his right hand first, then seemed to remember the bandage on the other one. "Oh, er. Right. It's nothing."</p><p>"Looks like something to me," Martin protested.</p><p>Jon scratched at his cowlicks without actually making any of them lay down. "I, erm, I had an accident with a … a knife."</p><p>"A <em>knife?"</em></p><p>"A bread knife!" He cringed, as if embarrassed to admit to it. "It's nothing. Looks worse than it is. Doesn't even hurt!"</p><p>Martin had spent his pre-teen years dressing his mother's escalating injuries, before she gave in and admitted that her tremors made knives and scissors and even nail clippers too dangerous to handle. He'd seen the kind of cuts a bread knife could leave, nasty ragged things that scabbed and scarred. But he also knew it usually took quite a bit of force to get more than a bad scratch off the serrated edge — and what was he doing that would've resulted in a cut on the <em>outside </em>of his hand?</p><p>But Jon had shoved his hand back into the depths of his hoodie already, and was asking, "So how did you find this place, anyway?"</p><p>"Honestly? Calling every vintage shop I could find on Google Maps," Martin admitted.</p><p>Jon briefly did a double take. "Sorry?"</p><p>Yeah, here was the part Martin hated. "Well, when you said the pieces were scattered, I looked up what a diving suit looked like without all the, y'know, diving bits? And they were really just … big canvas sacks. So that got me thinking, if <em>I </em>came upon something like that without knowing the context—"</p><p>"No, no," Jon said. "I mean … <em>all </em>of them?"</p><p>"Well, yeah," Martin said. "Just to be sure."</p><p>"It just seems …" Jon seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Time-consuming?"</p><p>Martin shrugged. "It's not like I'm going to stumble on a, a trail of breadcrumbs or something, am I? I'm not really … I worked in the library, before, so I don't really have a proper, er, research background? But the way things are now, they need more researchers than librarians, so … " He spread his hands. "Here I am."</p><p>"And why you were put on the trail of the books, no doubt," Jon said, though he seemed to be talking to himself.</p><p>"I … thought the director just didn't like me," Martin admitted. The reconstructed statement files he sent upstairs were the best he could do, and Sasha and Tim helped a lot, but he was constantly conscious of the fact that he didn't really know what he was doing.</p><p>Jon, perhaps wisely, didn't say anything to that. He turned to the shop instead. "Right. So, this was your best match?"</p><p>Martin nodded. "Yeah, and they agreed to hold it until you could have a look at it. I couldn't, um, exactly afford to just buy it…"</p><p>"No, no, I understand," Jon assured him. "I wouldn't have expected you to."</p><p>Well, <em>that </em>was a relief. A part Martin had been worried the whole thing was some kind of weird ...nautical salvage scam … which he <em>knew </em>didn't make sense, but then again, neither did those Nigerian Prince email scams, either, if you thought about it long enough, and people fell for those all time—</p><p>He was dithering, he realized. At least he hadn't started doing it out loud. "Right," Martin said. "So. Suit."</p><p>The shop was in the basement of the building, and Martin actually had to duck on the last few steps to avoid hitting his head, but it was well-lit and tidy. He led Jon between the racks, which were a bit crowded in the narrow room, and past the spinner racks of miscellaneous accessories, towards the till. The woman sat there was sewing a new button onto a corduroy blazer, and Martin nervously cleared his throat a few times before asking, "Hi, is, ah, is Eniola here?"</p><p>"Oh, that's me," the woman said brightly. Oh, thank god. "Are you Martin?"</p><p>"Yeah, and this is Jon — the one I told you was interested in the boiler suit?"</p><p>Eniola shook Jon's hand. (Thank god the bandage was on the left). "Martin said you're a collector?" she asked.</p><p>"Er," Jon said. "Yes. I … collect boiler suits."</p><p>Martin winced. "I told her you were collecting, er, a particular outfit," he explained, and only then realized that possibly he wasn't supposed to have said anything. Was the diving suit a secret? <em>Why </em>would a bunch of book dealers also have a secret diving suit?</p><p>"Oh, right." Jon smiled at Eniola; it was not a reassuring look. "If it's not too much trouble to have a look…?"</p><p>"Sure," she said, and thank <em>god </em>she wasn't phased by Jon's weirdness. "I set it back for you."</p><p>The shop didn't have a proper back room, just a heavy black curtain to hide the storage area; a few pieces had been pinned to it for display. Eniola pulled it aside, revealing plastic totes full of hangers, a couple of mismatched mannequin parts, and a hamper that Martin assumed was full of new clothes she hadn't had a chance to hang up yet.</p><p>The suit was folded neatly on top of one of the totes. "So like I told Martin, we picked it up at an estate sale a few years back," Eniola explained. "There's always demand for this kind of thing around Halloween, you know, the fancy dress parties. But this one we've never been able to move. I think someone bought it last year for a Purim costume and brought it right back the next day saying he'd changed his mind."</p><p>Jon did not appear to be listening; he studied the suit, rubbing the greasy canvas between his fingers and examining the fastenings. Martin had studied it, too, with another clerk when he'd come to look at it. It was baggier than a proper coverall should be, with snaps and straps and green bronze D-rings that he <em>thought </em>were meant to anchor it to the other parts of the diving suit. "Did he say why he'd changed his mind?" Jon asked, peering at the inside of the collar.</p><p>Eniola just shrugged. "I didn't handle it, so I don't know. We're pretty easy on returns, though, as long as the clothes aren't, you know, stained or damaged."</p><p>Jon nodded. "I think this is exactly what I'm looking for. How much?"</p><p>He paid in cash, peeling bills off a wad of twenties from the depths of his coat. It nearly gave Martin an aneurysm just looking at it; he couldn't remember the last time he'd carried around so much. "Aren't you afraid of being robbed?" he whispered, as Eniola wrapped the suit in a bag.</p><p>"Hmm?" Jon blinked. "Oh. I don't … I suppose it didn't occur to me."</p><p>"You just … carry money around like that all the time, do you?"</p><p>Jon shrugged. "When I'm, ah, 'on business,' sure. Our sort of books aren't usually cheap, and Gerry's the only one with the chequebook."</p><p>Maybe that made sense on whatever planet Jon had originally come from. Martin was starting to feel distinctly like Arthur Dent here. "But you're sure this is the right suit?"</p><p>"Almost certain," Jon agreed. "The manufacturer's mark is too worn to be read, but it's clearly <em>a </em>diving suit of the right era. Gertrude will be able to tell for certain."</p><p>Gertrude, right. The former head archivist turned bookseller was also an expert on diving suits. Great. That made perfect sense.</p><p>The next conversation they had to have was probably going to be at least as weird, but once they were out of the shop Martin really had no excuses for putting it off. "So. That was my end of the deal."</p><p>"Mmm. Yes, I appreciate it." Jon was somehow looking at his phone without walking into anyone or anything, a skill Martin hadn't fully acquired even though he'd lived in London for nearly a decade.</p><p>"So … what about yours?"</p><p>"What about mine?"</p><p>Martin's heart sank. "The books? Icarus?"</p><p>"Oh!" Jon blinked, and then grimaced. "Yes. Er. I have been working on it, I promise."</p><p>Of course he had. "But no luck?"</p><p>Jon sighed. "If he's even a real person, Gertrude's the only one who talks to him, and she's … she can be very cagey. If she thinks she's got a good reason to keep his identity from me, I'm not going to get anywhere by asking."</p><p>"So you haven't asked." It wasn't like Martin had actually expected anything. Somewhere in between calling all the clothing shops and continuing to call book dealers and scrounge on eBay, he'd realized that there was nothing actually obligating Jon to keep up his end of the bargain, and if he just said <em>sorry, found nothing </em>Martin wouldn't even be able to argue with him. Which put him back to square one. Again.</p><p>"Not yet," Jon said. And then, perhaps having seen something in Martin's expression, he added, "I will. I do plan on it. Just … not yet."</p><p>"It's fine," Martin said. "Dead ends are dead ends."</p><p>"It's not a dead end, I just…" He stared at his hands, which had the bag with the suit in a death grip. "I'm nervous."</p><p>Oh, no. Martin instantly felt horrible for having pushed it. "You don't have to—"</p><p>"No," Jon said. "No, I'm being irrational. You've kept up your side — <em>more </em>than kept it up — so now it's my turn. I gave you my word."</p><p>"Well...thank you," Martin said.</p><p>Jon nodded decisively. "Right. Erm. Sorry to run on you, but I'm supposed to meet Gerry at the Thames Barrier soon, so—"</p><p>"Oh! Of course." Martin decided it was probably better not to ask what on earth that could be about. "I'll keep in touch."</p>
<hr/><p>It turned out pouring out a random bucket of muck into the Thames without being seen took more planning and stealth than they'd anticipated. It was late by the time Gerry made it home, hauling an empty bucket in one hand and a sleepy Jon with the other. "M'gonna," Jon said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.</p><p>"Go for it," Gerry assured him. "I'll finish the tidying up."</p><p>He rinsed the bucket and stowed it in the downstairs loo — the shower stall had been repurposed for shelves before he was born. Rinsed the tools and stowed them, too, and scraped the mud and grass out of his boots.</p><p>Then he went upstairs, and knocked lightly on Gertrude's door.</p><p>She was awake, of course. He knew she slept, in theory, but no one ever seemed to catch her at it. Probably how she'd survived as the Archivist for so long. "Come in," she called, and he squeezed into her room as quietly as he was able. Gertrude’s room was the only bedroom in the flat with a decent window, and a door that, because of the way the old building had settled over the years, was practically wedged against the floor. Every time anyone opened or shut the damn thing it scraped horribly along the floorboards, leaving a scuffed indent in the wood. Gerry suspected that Gertrude preferred it that way. It was difficult to approach her unannounced.</p><p>She was at her desk, writing something in one of her little notebooks. Mary was perched on the end of the bed like a particularly grim vulture. Without looking up, Gertrude asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure, Gerard?"</p><p>"We need to talk," he said.</p><p>Mary rocked forward. "We just <em>were </em>talking, as a matter of fact. You interrupted."</p><p>"Alone, Mum," he clarified.</p><p>She sniffed. "Ungrateful, that's what you are."</p><p>But Gertrude shut her notebook and turned her chair to face the door. "We can continue this later, Mary."</p><p>"Of course, dear." Mary grinned at them both and wafted out of the room, passing right through the door instead of opening it. That usually meant she was really cross about something; Gerry hoped it wasn't actually him.</p><p>He turned back to Gertrude as soon as Mary was out of sight. "When are we going to tell Jon the truth?"</p><p>Gertrude raised one eyebrow. "You're going to have to be more specific."</p><p>"He's still talking to that Blackwood guy," Gerry told her. "And they've been talking about the fire. If he figures out we've been keeping things from him…"</p><p>She waited for him to finish the thought, and when he didn't (couldn't, really) she chided him. "You mean, when he realizes <em>you've </em>been keeping things from him."</p><p>Gerry folded his arms across his chest. "I wanted to be square with him from the start. You're the one who insisted on playing mind games."</p><p>"That's a reductive way of putting it," she said.</p><p>"So you're <em>not </em>stringing him along to see what happens next?" he prodded. "This <em>isn't </em>just another of your experiments?"</p><p>She stayed still as a statue, cool as concrete. "Jonathan is potentially either an asset or a liability. Until we're certain which one it is, he needs to be supervised, and this is the best place for that. Do you disagree?"</p><p><em>Yes, </em>he wanted to shout, but it wasn't like he was going to get his way, was he? Gertrude's mind was made up. And if he decided to tell Jon on his own … "I don't like this," he said aloud.</p><p>"Then it's fortunate you don't have to," she said coolly. "Will that be all?"</p><p>He didn't bother answering her; just shoved the door open with an obnoxious scrape of wood over wood, and crossed the hall to his own room. It was connected to Jon's via an awkwardly-placed en suite bathroom, and if he opened the door on his side he could hear the snuffling snore Jon only made when he fell asleep lying on his stomach.</p><p><em>When he realizes </em>you've <em>been keeping things from him…</em></p><p>"Fuck everything," Gerry grumbled, and shut the bathroom door again.</p><p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Stubborn, Paranoid Woman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon does a bit of light spycraft. Martin has an argument with his coworkers.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite his promise, Jon kept putting it off. In his head, it seemed perfectly rational not to confront Gertrude until he had some smoking gun, some concrete evidence he could ask about that she couldn't evade or avoid. But if he couldn't even obtain that—</p><p>Well. He'd have to start somewhere, wouldn't he?</p><p><em>Nothing suspicious in the post, </em>he texted to Martin, because it felt less like he was stalling if he made regular updates. Also, he was sending along research on the remaining diving suit components anyway, so he might as well include proper updates. He'd also searched the purloined books themselves, which had been thoroughly cleared of any stamps, nameplates or RFID tags that might've marked them as Institute property, so of course they also didn't carry any clues about the identity of George Icarus, either.</p><p>Most of Gertrude's research took place in her bedroom, which was nearly impossible to sneak into owing to the mishung door. Jon made one sortie, while Gerry was doing the bookkeeping at Gertrude was out, but found … not much of use, honestly. A box of statements obviously saved from the Institute, though he had no time to investigate their contents; several notebooks written in what appeared to be code, which he tried to photograph with his phone; a tidy file of research on the diving suit that he didn't dare disturb. The bonnet, suit and boots were being kept in a locked trunk at the foot of her bed, and when he stood too near it he started to feel a bit dizzy, like the ground was about to drift away from him, and between that and the fear of discovery he didn't dare linger any longer.</p><p>The pictures all came out illegible anyway, and Jon just about threw his phone off the roof.</p><p>"Do you know where Gertrude goes when she's not on desk duty?" he asked Gerry, as the only other person who might conceivably know the answer.</p><p>Gerry gave him a measured look. "Please don't start following her around."</p><p>"Why would I do that?" Jon asked, even as he began considering the logistics of doing that.</p><p>"Look, I know you've got yourself in knots about the Icarus thing," Gerry said. "But if you piss her off, she's going to make you regret it."</p><p>"What's the worst she can do?" Jon said, though he knew full well how terrifying she could be when all her attention was focused on something. The first time he'd turned up at the bookshop, she'd pulled his entire life story out of him within minutes, an encounter that still occasionally gave him bad dreams. He'd been half-convinced, by the end of it, that either she or Gerry (who was still Gerard at the time) were going to kill him. Even after they'd offered him a job instead, he hadn't been entirely certainly it wasn't some sort of clever ruse.</p><p>In the present, Gerry just gave him a knowing look. "I mean it. We've got too much shit to do right now to be starting some kind … office drama, or whatever." When Jon snickered at him, he pouted. "Oh, you know what I mean."</p><p>"I know, I know." They were a team, at least nominally; they were trying to save the world, one monstrous artefact at a time. That, at least, he had faith in, no matter what suspicions he might have about Gertrude's other operations.</p><p>But he'd given his word. And, on a more personal level, the more times he failed, the more it began to feel like a personal challenge. Gertrude was crafty, but Jon was stubborn, if not particularly brave. He <em>would </em>find out who George Icarus was. He just need to be very, very careful about it.</p><p>So he kept track of Gertrude's schedule, such as it was. Her comings and goings, and what, if anything, she brought back with her. Of course she did the usual, mundane sort of errands — groceries, business for the shop, that sort of thing. She spent a lot of time out "researching" that never seemed to return anything, except maybe more coded entries in one of her notebooks. If she ever did anything for entertainment purposes, Jon never noticed.</p><p>He finally had a breakthrough one evening, when she came back with a couple of shopping bags from Tesco's rather than the Lidl down the road. "Is it too much to request of you gentlemen," she said testily, "that you inform someone <em>before </em>we run out of necessities, so as to promptly restock?"</p><p>"Oh, yeah," Gerry said flatly. "We're out of toilet roll." He snatched a package out of the bag and raced up to the en-suite bathroom before Gertrude could scold him.</p><p>It was much later, when Jon was getting ready for bed, that he noticed the receipt stuck to the plastic outer wrap by static electricity. <em>Tesco Express, </em>it said at the top, but the address was for a location on Lupus Street in Pimlico. Just a quick jaunt from the Institute.</p><p>Hmmm.</p><p><em>Is there any chance Icarus is an MI employee? </em>he asked Martin. The thought made him oddly uncomfortable. Knowing the place had been a temple to the Beholding designed to hoard mortal fear was one thing; an employee selling library property on the side, though, just seemed … seedy? Unseemly? A mundane sort of corruption that offended the academic in him. Even if it had nothing to do with Dread Powers, it was just <em>inappropriate. </em></p><p><em>I doubt it, </em>Martin wrote back. <em>Only 5 library staff left, 2 are new hires, other 3 I trust. </em></p><p>
  <em>How much do you trust them?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Declan reported the books missing originally. Natalie and Dave helped me check catalogues + checkout records to narrow down dates. Seems too transparent??</em>
</p><p>He was probably right. <em>But if Icarus isn't an employee, how is he getting into the library?</em></p><p><em>??? </em>Martin texted initially, but after a couple of hours he wrote back, <em>okay just went through visitor logs, everyone seems accounted for? No mysterious repeat visitors?</em></p><p>
  <em>You went through ALL visitor logs since March??</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We don't get that many visitors anymore. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</em>
</p><p>Jon spent the rest of the evening trying to plan a hypothetical book heist (and also looking up how Martin had made the shrug emoji thing). Was Icarus a collective alias representing more than one person? Or was it, as he'd originally suspected, a placeholder, and Gertrude was getting back into the Institute somehow on her own, unnoticed? <em>How?</em></p><p>He still had the option of asking directly, and it was still deeply intimidating. The alternative, unfortunately, was trying to follow her, and it turned out to be something that Jon really was not very good at.</p><p>Partly, of course, that was down to them already living and working together. He wouldn't have expected that to make things <em>harder, </em>but it turned out that it was rather difficult to discreetly follow someone out of their own home. He also had to take his turns minding the shop, and there was no point in asking Gerry to spot him a few shifts so he could do something Gerry had explicitly warned him against doing.</p><p>But the other problem was that following someone was actually <em>much </em>more difficult than Jon expected. He had to keep back far enough that she wouldn't notice him, but not so far that he lost sight of her. It was impossible to follow her in a taxi or rideshare ("<em>follow that car" doesn't work in real life, </em>he mourned to Martin via text) and bloody difficult when she boarded a bus. He could usually manage to get on the same train when she took the Tube, but if he couldn't manage the same carriage he ended up losing her anyway.</p><p>It took weeks before he actually managed to tail her all the way to her destination. He was quite pleased with himself until he realized she was just going to get a haircut.</p><p>"You don't even know if she's going to meet Icarus," Martin pointed out, while they roamed another nautical salvage shop all the way out in Reading. "Now that she knows that <em>we </em>know that the books were stolen, is she really going to get any more?"</p><p>"It's the principle of the thing," Jon insisted, though Martin's point was valid; there hadn't been any transactions under Icarus' name since September. "Besides, Icarus might've been taking more than just the books."</p><p>"Not sure what else there's left to take besides the wiring," Martin muttered.</p><p>Still. Jon kept it up, as best he was able. He lost track of her more often than not. He spent so much money on transit that he was surprised TfL didn't send him some sort of gift basket.</p><p>And after nearly a month, he found something.</p><p>Gertrude boarded the Tube in Morden, and for once he managed to keep up with her when she changed lines in Stockwell. She disembarked at Pimlico, and he half expected her to turn east towards the Institute; she headed west instead, along Lupus Street, and after a few streets turned north. Jon almost lost his nerve at that point; it was so much harder to find a place to hide on a residential street, so much harder to see without being seen. But this was so close to the Institute, and the Tesco receipt suggested she'd been here before…</p><p>He crossed to the opposite side, to at least give himself a bit of distance. He followed her past long rows of terraced houses, all elegant columns and black shutters on blinding white stucco. And he watched as she walked up to the door of the last house on the row and let herself in.</p><p>Jon stopped and stared for a minute, before he realized he needed to keep walking.</p><p>He crossed the street again and came back to it, managed to take a discreet photo of the address on his way. He doubled back, and dared to walk around again, just to try to peek through the front windows — but they were blocked by sensible curtains inside. There was no reasonable place to wait and watch, not without being obvious, so he made his way back to the Tube station, which at least had a bench.</p><p>He tried googling the address, and found lots of real estate sites with aggregate information about the street and what a house or flat there might cost (which ranged from <em>breathtaking </em>to <em>ungodly</em>, but that was central London for you). When he scrolled through the lists, he found that the specific address Gertrude had entered was listed as a three-bedroom house, not flats, and it was last sold in 1995. To find the current owner, he ended up fighting with the web page of Her Majesty's Land Register, which clearly hadn't been designed for mobile access; eventually he persuaded it to take his three pounds, and at some point after that it spit back out a PDF of recorded titles. The house was currently owned by Icarus Holdings Ltd, which told him plenty but also fuck-all.</p><p>The previous owner, according to the deed, was Jurgen Leitner.</p><p>Jon swore, took deep breaths, paced about the station. Leitner. Jurgen <em>fucking</em> Leitner. Was it a coincidence? Surely not. Had Leitner left something behind that Gertrude was working on? Some book, or artefact, or a discovery he made before he and his library were obliterated? Why keep it a secret, though? Why not say something—?</p><p>"Jonathan."</p><p>He froze, and his entire chain of thought shattered. When he turned around, he found Gertrude standing on the steps of the station, watching him with an implacable calm.</p><p>"Hi," Jon said, because it seemed the polite thing to do.</p><p>"I imagine," Gertrude said, "that you would like to talk."</p><p>"Yes," he said. "I think I would."</p><p>She nodded smartly. "Home, then. For privacy's sake."</p><p>"Not your little pied-a-terre?" Jon asked, but she merely walked into the station, and he had to jog a bit to catch up to here.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin wasn't exactly surprised to get an email from the director asking for a meeting, because it had been nearly two months since he started working on the missing books and he still had nothing to show for it. Well, Jon had nothing to show for it, and Martin had a few statements he'd worked on in his spare time, part of a vintage diving suit, and some profoundly weird trends in his Facebook ads. And technically the diving suit wasn't even his.</p><p>So he wasn't surprised he was getting called to account, but that didn't make it any less terrifying. The one thought he consoled himself with, as he raised his hand to knock on the door, was that at least he wasn't going to be fired — they couldn't spare the manpower.</p><p>(Right?)</p><p>He wandered back into his office after the meeting and collapsed at his desk, rubbing his eyes. Tim glanced up at the movement. "Everything okay over there?"</p><p>"Yeah," Martin said, "fine. Just — director."</p><p>That got Tim's attention properly; he turned in his chair, frowning. "You're not in any trouble, are you? I told you, that last statement you sent up was fine, it's not like you had enough to work with—"</p><p>"No, no," Martin explained. "It wasn't that. I still haven't worked out where those library books went."</p><p>"Ahhh, gotcha." Tim shrugged. "Not like you've got a lot to go on there, either, right? What'd the old man have to say?"</p><p>"He said … " Huh. Martin stopped, tried again. "He wanted ..." <em>Idiot, </em>he'd literally come straight from the office, why couldn't he —</p><p>"There you are!" Sasha billowed into the office, coat whipping around her. "I was afraid you'd gone to lunch already."</p><p>"Nah, got in trouble with the boss," Tim explained as Martin gathered his scattered thoughts. "Nothing serious, though, right?"</p><p>"No, it's fine," Martin said, and shook himself a bit before he turned to Sasha. "You were looking for me?"</p><p>She unwound her scarf and hooked it into the coat rack. "I found something new about Gertrude Robinson."</p><p>Martin's stomach sank. She'd nagged him about how suspicious Jon and Gertrude were for days, enough that he'd started doing some of his diving-suit research back in the library instead of at his proper desk just to avoid her. He half-suspected she'd only stopped because Tim said something — on cue, he asked, "Are you still on that?" with a significantly raised eyebrow.</p><p>Sasha tipped her chin up at him. "Martin's still talking to them, so yes, I thought he might like to know."</p><p>"How do you know I'm still talking to them?" Martin asked, though as soon as he said it he knew he'd just lost all plausible deniability. It wasn't like Jon came around the Institute — if anything, he avoided it — and Martin wasn't taking phone calls out loud —</p><p>"You spent an entire afternoon picking through the visitor logs," Sasha said. "Which meant you had a lead, but you wouldn't let either of us help you, which meant it was a lead you wanted to keep secret. And since you'd have no reason to keep anything else from us…"</p><p>Martin blinked as he considered this logic. "You … deduced the information I was keeping from you from the fact that I was keeping it from you?"</p><p>"I mean," Sasha said, "it's more like an educated guess."</p><p>"Or a wild stab in the dark," Tim muttered.</p><p>Martin sighed. "Okay, yes, fine. I've been talking to Jon some more. It's not … I'm helping him with something, actually."</p><p>"Oh, really?" Sasha said, in a tone that made Martin immediately regret ever learning to speak.</p><p>Tim saved him again, though. "I thought this was about Gertrude, the Human Cardigan?"</p><p>Sasha snorted. "You really didn't know her well, did you?"</p><p>"What is there to know?"</p><p>There was a melodramatic pause, as Sasha plopped down into her chair and spun it around to face them. "She's dead."</p><p>"N-no?" Martin said. "I'm pretty sure she was alive when I talked to her—?"</p><p>"I mean, <em>legally </em>dead," Sasha said. "I went through the proceedings from the inquest, and the coroner ruled that, even without a body, there was no chance Gertrude escaped the fire alive. She's been declared dead since March."</p><p>She looked at them, eyes wide and bright, as if waiting for their reaction. Tim said, "Huh."</p><p>"Huh?" Sasha echoed. "Come on!"</p><p>"What am I supposed to say?" he shot back. "It's not her fault that the inquest screwed up."</p><p>"There was a search," Sasha insisted. "She had to be actively hiding from the police for this to happen. All her bank accounts would've been frozen, her passport cancelled — she's an un-person. And she's just been living like that for months. Why?"</p><p>"Maybe she just wanted a change," Tim said stubbornly. "Time to ditch the cardigan lifestyle, take up pullovers?"</p><p>Sasha rolled her eyes. "Gertrude Robinson was not some soft, senile granny, okay? Women like that don't last in academia, and they certainly don't get promoted. She might've looked soft on the outside, but if you'd ever actually talked to her, you'd know she was a stone-cold bitch."</p><p>Tim scoffed, but Martin thought that <em>stone-cold bitch </em>was probably a lot closer to his most recent impression of Gertrude than <em>human cardigan. </em>He didn't say that, though; instead, he asked, "What's that got to do with the inquest, though? ."</p><p>"A person with nothing to hide doesn't <em>fake their death, </em>Martin," she insisted. "Even if she didn't have anything to do with the fire, she's up to <em>something. </em>How much do you actually know about her, or Jon? How much do you know about whatever you're helping her with?"</p><p>Which was sort of the problem? Part of it, anyway. He still didn't know why they were looking for the diving suit or what it had to do with old books. They still didn't know if George Icarus was even a real person. Not that he exactly <em>minded </em>spending weekends with Jon searching antique shops, or getting his acerbic running commentary on his attempts to tail Gertrude around London — if nothing else, it reassured him that Jon, at least, was being honest with him about what he did and didn't know. And he could be funny, though Martin wasn't always sure whether some comments were actually meant to be jokes…</p><p>The bigger point being, he still had a lot of unanswered questions himself, and he had a feeling that right now, Sasha wouldn't be particularly sanguine about his <em>I don't knows. </em></p><p>"I trust Jon," Martin said, which was at least true. "And it's not like we're doing anything illegal, okay? I'm just trying to figure out where those books went, and he's helping me track down their supplier."</p><p>"And that takes six weeks?" Sasha asked.</p><p>"Yeah, as it turns out, it does."</p><p>She scoffed. "I think he's lying to you."</p><p>"And I think," Martin said, surprised at the flare of anger in his chest, "that it's none of your business."</p><p>"But you have to admit—"</p><p>"I'm not stupid, Sasha," Martin said. "Okay? Just because I don't have the — the practical experience or whatever, in research, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot! I know it looks sketchy, okay? And I know you mean well. But I already talked about this with the director, and I <em>don't </em>need to go over it again with <em>you."</em></p><p>She seemed taken aback; Martin was a little surprised with himself, to be honest. He was usually better at filtering than that. "I just think—" she started to say, weakly, but Tim interrupted with a firm <em>"Drop it, </em>Sash," and she didn't press it.</p>
<hr/><p>Gertrude spent the trip back to the shop in silence. Jon would almost have called it stony, but there was nothing overtly hostile about it; it was stony in the sense that it was utterly impermeable, unaffected by anything about it. As much as he wanted to start peppering her with questions, he knew he'd get nothing out of her until she decided to answer, and in the meantime there was a train full of strangers who might not like what they overheard.</p><p>Somewhat to Jon's surprise, Gertrude didn't go into the shop when they arrived; she sat down outside the cafe next door, despite the fact that it was November and the outdoor seating had been pushed off the pavement for weeks. When it seemed obvious none of the workers were going to come out and accost them, Jon pulled one of the chairs aside, screeching, and sat facing her.</p><p>"I want to compliment you," Gertrude said, as if they were in mid-conversation. "The last few times you've followed me, I hardly noticed."</p><p>That stung. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked.</p><p>She raised an eyebrow. "You weren't interfering. And it's a skill you might as well cultivate."</p><p>Not for the first time, Jon thought that Gertrude was a very strange person. They had to be, to succeed in this environment. But if she wasn't annoyed, perhaps he could ask his questions as well. "Who is George Icarus? Does he own that house?"</p><p>"Ah. That was your purpose." She paused, as if to gather her thoughts. "You've likely already deduced that 'George Icarus' is an alias, of course. A colleague of mine and I used it to acquire some of Jurgen Leitner's assets after his death. Primarily for academic purposes, at the time, but later, having a — what did you call it? A pied-a-terre near the Institute was occasionally useful."</p><p>"And now?" Jon prompted. "Do you just go there to hide from the kids periodically, or…?"</p><p>She shrugged. "It is extremely secure, and I've found it useful for certain experiments that would pose an unacceptable risk to the shop. I also still keep a few supplies cached there, in the event I need to go to ground quickly."</p><p>"You mean it's a safehouse." She nodded. "Why not just tell us about it?"</p><p>"Primarily, because you didn't ask."</p><p>Right. Of course. Jon wanted to kick himself. "Did you tell Gerry about it?" he asked, and couldn't keep something petty out of his tone.</p><p>"I share information when it is necessary, helpful or convenient," Gertrude said firmly. "Gerard understands that."</p><p>Which, he noticed, wasn't a <em>yes </em>or a <em>no. </em>"What about your colleague?" he asked. "The one who helped you acquire the house? And the books, I assume?"</p><p>"He'd dead," she said, bluntly neutral, as if she were reporting on stock prices or the shipping forecast. "So Mr. Blackwood no longer has anything to worry about on that front, either."</p><p>Jon buried his face in his hands. "I suppose I should've realized I'm not subtle."</p><p>"You are not." Gertrude stood. "Should I expect your company again tomorrow? Or are you satisfied?"</p><p>"I … suppose I'm satisfied." She could be lying to him, of course, but it wasn't like he could fact check her. And while she hadn't said anything outright, the ultimatum was clearly implied. She'd put up with him this long out of choice; there was no guarantee she'd continue.</p><p>But his answer made her, very briefly, crack something resembling a smile. "Shame. I must admit I haven't had that much fun in some time."</p><p>Jon scoffed at her, and stayed seated outside the cafe as she went inside the shop. He supposed there was nothing left to do but report back to Martin.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon texted and asked to meet up after Martin got off work, and Martin couldn't get out of the office fast enough. Sasha hadn't said anything further, but she'd spent most of the afternoon giving him Significant Looks like she <em>wanted </em>to, which in turn had kept him on edge and nervous. Not that meeting with Jon didn't make him nervous as well, of course, but at least they were on the same page? About things? Right?</p><p>There was a tiny Costa in the Stockwell Tube station; it didn't have actual tables, but there was a bench along the street-facing window where they could sit. Jon was already there waiting for him, toying with a drink without actually sipping it. Martin felt a bit weird not ordering anything, but he didn't want to drink coffee so late in the evening, so he settled on a hot chocolate and sat next to Jon to wait for it.</p><p>"You made it sound like you had news?" he asked hesitantly.</p><p>Jon nodded. "I talked to Gertrude. Or, well, she caught me, and gave me her side of the story, such as it is."</p><p>"And?" Martin's heart leapt nervously. Surely she wouldn't just confess — ?</p><p>"According to her, George Icarus is dead," Jon said. "She didn't say how, or when, or — anything besides that he was a colleague. Certainly didn't admit to having him steal the books for her, but I think I was meant to take that implication."</p><p>For a minute Martin just jawed at the air. That … wasn't what he'd expected, honestly. Not that — obviously, people died, sometimes, it was a thing that happened, but — all this time they'd been chasing Icarus, and he just … wasn't there to be caught. "Huh," he said.</p><p>Jon nodded. "It's — a little too convenient, I suppose? You've got something to take back to your boss, but since there's nothing definitely linking the books in our shop back to the Institute, we're still covered as well. Everyone walks away with a tidy story."</p><p>"So … you don't believe her?" Martin asked.</p><p>He threw up his hands, sloshing a bit of his drink out of the lid in the process. "I suppose I do? I mean, it doesn't <em>not </em>make sense? I just … " He sighed heavily. "I'm probably just being paranoid."</p><p>Speaking of paranoia — Martin's drink arrived, and he collected it from the counter before returning to the bench. "Can I ask a question? One you totally, 100%, aren't obligated to answer," he added, quickly.</p><p>Jon frowned. "I … suppose so?"</p><p>Martin chose his words carefully. "The diving suit — why exactly are you looking for it? It's a bit outside your usual business model."</p><p>"Oh. Erm." Jon took a long swallow of his drink. "Special commission. Gertrude arranged for it."</p><p>Right. Of course. Gertrude arranged everything. And Jon couldn't seem to make up his mind as to whether he trusted her or not. "Did she tell you who commissioned it? Or is that something else she's being cagey about?"</p><p>"Just one of our usual clients. Nothing suspicious about it."</p><p>Okay. Martin sipped his hot chocolate and tried to think of how to phrase his next question. "Gertrude — she seems to keep a lot of secrets."</p><p>"She's not particularly trusting, no," Jon agreed with a bit of a wry smile.</p><p>"So … what makes you trust <em>her?" </em></p><p>He seemed to give the question a lot of thought, which Martin appreciated. "I suppose," he said haltingly, "I trust that she's not acting out of — of malice, or ill intention. She's a very stubborn, rather paranoid woman, but — well, lord knows she's got reasons for that. I think we have the same goals, though, and I don't … <em>think </em>she'd hide anything dangerous. Not unless … well." He shook his head. "She's practical, and I think I can trust <em>that."</em></p><p>Martin wasn't sure any of that actually sounded <em>trustworthy, </em>but then again, it wasn't his place to tell other people who they should and shouldn't trust. Unlike <em>some </em>people, he could stay in his lane. "Okay. So … I guess that's one mystery solved, isn't it? At least partially."</p><p>Jon nodded. "I, er, I've appreciated your help with the diving suit," he said. "You've been … surprisingly thorough."</p><p>"...thank you?"</p><p>"I should let you get home—" Jon tossed his cup in the nearest bin, and started doing up his coat again. "I'd been a, a pleasure working with you."</p><p>"You … too?" Martin had the overwhelming feeling he'd skipped a step, somewhere along the line. He had that feeling a lot, around Jon. "Are we, ah, are we still on for the museum on Saturday?"</p><p>Jon froze in place, and blinked several times, as if he was rebooting. "Sorry?"</p><p>"You said you wanted to look in that weird museum?" Martin's stomach was already sinking. "For the, what-do-you-call-it, the corset?"</p><p>"Corselet. Yes." Jon cleared his throat. "I … that is … you've got your answers now, don't you?"</p><p>"Yeah, but—" <em>Don't be an idiot, </em>Martin told himself. If this was Jon trying to give him a graceful out, then maybe he should take it. But he also didn't want to bail on a friend (if <em>friend </em>was even the right word?) just because they'd got their wires crossed. "I mean, if you — don't want me to help —?"</p><p>"Of course I—" Jon looked positively flummoxed now. "I just assumed <em>you </em>didn't want to keep working on it."</p><p>"We made a deal, didn't we?" Martin said. "You came through on your end, so I might as well keep up mine."</p><p>"You don't have to," Jon insisted. "Just finding that suit was — was excellent work, more than enough—"</p><p>"Do you not want me to?" Martin blurted. <em>Oh yes, very smooth, Blackwood!</em></p><p>Jon became extremely interested in his gloves. "Idnstthd."</p><p>"Sorry?"</p><p>"I didn't say — that," he repeated, louder. "That I didn't want you. To help."</p><p>Martin felt like something rather large was caught in his throat. "Do you want me to keep helping?" he croaked around it.</p><p>"Do you want to?" Jon asked. "Help, I mean. Because if it's only a sense of obligation—"</p><p>"No, no," Martin assured him. "I do, I mean. I want to keep helping. It's … sort of fun, you know?"</p><p>A smile tugged at the corner of Jon's mouth. "All right," he said. "Then … I suppose I'll see you Saturday."</p><p>"See you then," Martin said, and he was so relieved he made it all the way home before he remembered he'd left his hot chocolate.</p><p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pinky and the Brain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Martin go out to eat. Jon and Gerry mess with some hair dye.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>What are we going to do tonight? </em>Martin texted early Friday morning.</p><p>Jon, without really thinking about it, replied, <em>The same thing we do every night. </em></p><p>
  <em>Try to take over the world? </em>
</p><p>He blinked for a moment at the nonsequitur — but then suddenly it clicked, vague memories of watching cartoons at a friend's house, or when his grandmother was running particularly ragged. Jon wasn't sure whether he was more pleased by the reference, or the fact that for once he actually got it.</p><p>"What are you smiling at?" Gerry asked from the other side of the kitchen. He'd been struck by the urge to make eggs, for some reason, though it seemed to be going poorly.</p><p>"Nothing," Jon said quickly. He typed into his phone, <em>Glad to see you acknowledge which of us is the Brain of this operation. </em></p><p>Martin sent back a crying-laughing emoji, which meant he probably wasn't insulted. <em>Seriously though, where are we meeting up? </em></p><p>Jon fished his moleskin out of his trouser pocket to check which shop was next on their list, only to realize that there wasn't one. They'd spent the last several weeks scouring increasingly improbable locations for the rest of the diving suit, without any results. "Any more leads?" he asked Gerry. "Corselet, weight belt…?"</p><p>"No luck so far." Gerry appeared to be scraping his eggs out of the frying pan and onto a plate. At least the smoke had been minimal. "I asked Gertrude what we're supposed to do if the damn thing's been melted down for scrap, but she seems to think it's more durable than that."</p><p>"I'd hope so. Imagine wiring your house up with the earthly anchor of a Vast spirit." He turned back to his phone. Assuming neither of them came up with any more ideas in the next eight hours, the next best thing to do might be to brainstorm alternative places to look. <em>Pick a restaurant, </em>he suggested. They might as well strategize over food.</p><p>Martin clearly read the message, but he took an awfully long time to respond; Jon wondered if he'd misspoken. <em>There's a Portuguese place in Wandsworth Road that's not too expensive? </em>he finally sent.</p><p>Jon had no idea what Portuguese food was like, but he found the idea appealing purely on grounds of novelty. <em>Sounds good. Meet at six?</em></p><p>
  <em>Sure! Sounds great! See you then!!</em>
</p><p>(The number of exclamation points, in hindsight, ought to have seemed suspicious, but Martin's texting style was still fairly opaque to Jon, so the missed nuance was perhaps understandable.)</p><p>It turned out there were several Portuguese restaurants in Wandsworth Road, and it took several text exchanges to work out which one Martin had meant, by which point Jon was late. The weather, at least, was quite mild for December, so at least he wasn't freezing to death while he roamed up and down the street. Still, it was fortunate that Martin tended to tower over everyone around him, as once Jon had got the right place, he spotted him from the door and could slide into the other side of the booth without waiting for a server. "Sorry about that, I should've asked for the address before I left."</p><p>"It's fine," Martin assured him, though there was something odd in his tone. "I, er, I actually was running a bit late myself? So it all works out."</p><p>Whatever Jon was going to say in response fled from his mind when he got a good look at his dining companion. He'd gotten used to Martin's work clothes, which involved a rotating series of jumpers and collared shirts, and Martin's weekend clothes, which mainly involved slightly louder collared shirts tucked into his jeans. Neither variation involved braces, much less a <em>bowtie, </em>and yet Martin was currently wearing both of those things.</p><p>Jon, meanwhile, had on his usual assortment of flannel and cotton jersey, about half of which he'd stolen from Gerry at some point or another. "Er," he managed to say, feeling a bit wrong-footed. "You look … nice."</p><p>"Thanks," Martin said. He was playing with the cuffs of his shirt, and his shoulders were slumped. "You, erm, make any progress today?"</p><p>"Minimal," Jon admitted. "Er. You?"</p><p>Martin shrugged. "Called a couple of places outside London, but none of them seemed worth the trip to check out in person."</p><p>Jon picked up the menu, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands. "Anything you recommend here?"</p><p>"I've actually never been?" Martin said, with a small laugh. "Never had an excuse, I guess. Always thought it looked good when I walked by it, though."</p><p>"Well … I'm happy to be your excuse," Jon said, and some of the tension melted from Martin's shoulders.</p><p>It immediately transferred over to Jon the second he got a look at the menu. He flipped nervously past fried squid heads, giblets, and snails, only to find what struck him as a serious abundance of liver dishes. “Something wrong?” Martin asked, his brow furrowed.</p><p>“No,” Jon replied quickly. “No, no, it’s just- Very versatile, this place." He scanned the menu for something simple and comforting. There seemed to be quite a lot of seafood, especially prawns, and he was wracking his brains for a clever way to connect that to the diving suit with a quip when Martin spoke.</p><p>“Have you ever been to a Portuguese place before…?”</p><p>Jon folded his menu shut over his thumb and tried not to cringe. “Is it that obvious?”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry, I was so overwhelmed by the food when I first moved to London — Not that you seem new to the area, of course! I just mean to say, you know, I’ve been there.” Martin ran a hand through his hair reflexively. “I’ve found that it helps to go for something that’s familiar, but not, like, the fish and chips, you know? I mean, every place seems to do the same fish and chips, or some kind of sausage and beans, just to play it safe, and that sort of defeats the point.”</p><p>Jon nodded, relaxing somewhat. "It's been a while since I ate anywhere that wasn't walking distance to the shop," he admitted. "Gerry sometimes gets actual groceries from the deli across the road, but none of us really cook."</p><p>"I'm the same," Martin admitted. "Lots of ready meals, usually. It's nice to try new things sometimes, though, isn't it?"</p><p>They eventually settled on a few small plates from the tapas menu to share, to hedge their bets. Martin also ordered a beer. Now that the food was seen to, Jon knew this was when they should start talking business, trying to work out the locations of the corselet or how to pin down the gloves, but he found himself feeling oddly reluctant to bring it up. Not after gently arguing about the correct pronunciation of chouriço (according to the waitress, they'd both got it wrong). Not when Jon was sat in a proper restaurant for the first time in … he couldn't remember, actually.</p><p>It all felt so <em>normal, </em>he realized, and he'd almost forgotten what that meant.</p><p>So instead of talking about work, they talked about the neighborhood, and Martin's opinions about the nearby shops. They talked about Jon's old flat in Mile End, though he skirted around the circumstances of how he'd ended up moving into Pinhole Books (which had involved some very late bills, and an encounter with his landlord brandishing a golf club). Martin was cagey about places he'd lived before London, though he implied he'd moved around a fair bit; Jon talked a bit about growing up in Bournemouth, though he didn't really have any interesting stories to tell about it. Or at least, none that were appropriate to share here and now, when he was trying to embrace normalcy.</p><p>"I'm kind of surprised you got my joke earlier today," Martin admitted. By this point the food had arrived; Jon had claimed the chouriço and white beans after Martin found it too spicy, but Martin was surprisingly into some kind of seafood salad served on bruschetta. "You don't strike me as an Animaniacs sort of guy."</p><p>"I wasn't really a television child in general," Jon admitted. "But I'm not <em>completely </em>ignorant of popular culture."</p><p>"Okay, one, the way you say <em>popular culture," </em>and here Martin deliberately lowered his voice, imitating Jon's inflection, "tells me that no, you really don't know anything about it."</p><p>"I know more than Gerry," Jon protested, though he realized that was an extremely unfair comparison, as he was neither home-schooled nor raised by an occultist.</p><p>"And two," Martin continued, gesturing with a half-eaten bruschetta, "are you seriously telling me you were a Nineties kid?"</p><p>"Yes," Jon said. "Is it that hard to believe?"</p><p>His tone must've come off harsher than he intended, and Martin cringed back a bit. "You just — dress like a — a grunge-rock grandad most of the time," he said. "I wasn't sure if you were thirty years old or fifty. Not that it matters! I actually think it suits you!"</p><p>"I'm twenty-eight," Jon said out loud, interrupting Martin's anxious back-peddling. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, though only just.</p><p>Martin's jaw actually dropped, slightly, but he recovered. "That's — huh! That's interesting." He scratched at the back of his neck nervously. "Same as me."</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>"Yeah." A pause. "Don't, ah, don't say anything to anyone from the Institute, though? Everyone there thinks I'm thirty-three."</p><p>"That's … specific," Jon said, but it wasn't like he planned on ever going back there, so it didn't seem like a terribly important thing to agree to.</p><p>"It's a long story," Martin said, and then he followed it up with: "Anyway. If you're so well versed in popular culture, what's the last film you watched?"</p><p>Which led easily into a discussion about the Lord of the Rings films, which had apparently got spin-offs recently. Jon eventually relented and ordered a beer after Martin vouched for the quality, and Martin took mock-offense at all Jon's opinions about literature. Eventually the waitress had to advise them that the place was closing soon, at which point Jon realized he hadn't checked his phone in hours. Hadn't even thought about it.</p><p>"D'you have — plans — or anything?" Martin asked as they gathered their coats. "For the holidays?"</p><p>Jon shrugged. "Not really. The, ah, the shop doesn't really close for holidays. You?"</p><p>"Going to Devon for ten days." Martin said it brightly enough, but for the first time all night there was something a bit brassy and false about his tone. "Spend some time with my mum."</p><p>"That sounds — nice," Jon said, to cover the unexpected stab of disappointment. It would be the first weekend in quite a while he hadn't met with Martin in some capacity.</p><p>"Yeah." Martin's smile was just as forced as his tone. "Though if you hear about any, I dunno, nautical salvage places near Exeter, maybe shoot me a text?"</p><p>Jon almost said something demure about not interrupting Martin's holiday, but then again, it sounded like he was hoping for the distraction. "I'll, ah, I'll keep that in mind."</p><p>It was chilly outside, though still mild for the season, and Martin walked with him as far as the Tube even though it was quite clearly out of his way. "Have a nice trip," Jon said, lingering in the ticket hall.</p><p>"Thanks," Martin said. "Though I don't leave until Thursday, so — if anything comes up — "</p><p>"I'll let you know," Jon promised. "And, er — happy Christmas?"</p><p>"Happy Christmas to you, too," Martin said, with a smile, before ducking back out into the street.</p>
<hr/><p>Over the next few days, the weather turned to a more seasonable rainy awfulness, and Gertrude took off for Scotland in pursuit of the diving suit's corselet. She took Mary with her, or rather, Mary's book — Jon still wasn't entirely certain how far she could travel from it while manifested, and it seemed rude to ask. Probably not the other side of Britain, though, which left just him and Gerry to mind the shop for a few days, both figuratively and literally.</p><p>Not that Jon minded, since antique books were not an industry that saw a big holiday rush. If anything, they were less busy than usual on that front, which gave him time to do some organizing and cleaning that usually didn't get done. As for the <em>other </em>work, well — people weren't any less fearful this time of the year, but it was somewhat harder to be subtle about investigating it. On one hand, Jon obviously wanted to be out stopping horrors, that was why he was still here, but one the other, much guiltier hand, he was also looking forward to a bit of a slow period. Maybe get some reading done that wasn't research, for a change.</p><p>When he actually tried that, however, he got about ten pages in before his phone buzzed at him. The screen lit up with a text from Gerry: <em>can u come help me? </em>Jon messaged back: <em>Where?</em></p><p>
  <em>bathroom.</em>
</p><p>This caused Jon to raise an eyebrow, but he got up and made his way back to his bedroom, where he cautiously approached the door to the ensuite bathroom he and Gerry shared. With a tentative knock, he called, “Everything okay?”</p><p>“What? Yeah,” Gerry said through the door, mildly nonplussed. “Just help me get this bit at the back, I can’t see.”</p><p>When Jon swung the door inward, he startled at the sight of Gerry, standing at the sink with his head absolutely coated in black goop. It took Jon a second to register that the goop in question was not some threatening supernatural residue, but rather about half a tube of <em>Nice N’ Easy</em> demi-permanent hair dye, if the evidence on the counter was anything to go off of. Despite Jon’s definitive knowledge that Gerry had colored his hair countless times in the past, he did not appear to have ever refined his technique. The dye was slathered on haphazardly; it looked as if Gerry had attempted to apply it like shampoo. “Good lord,” Jon said, squinting at him. “You’ve got some on your nose.”</p><p>Gerry rolled his eyes. “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed while I was staring into the mirror.” He held up his hands, fitted with cheap plastic gloves which were also coated liberally in inky dye. “I can’t wipe it off without making it worse. Look, just tell me if I’ve got enough at the back, okay?”</p><p>“You do,” Jon said firmly, before Gerry could even turn around. “Christ, I thought you were supposed to do this sort of thing with special tools. And it <em>smells,</em>” he added pointedly, bending down to pick up the box which had contained the dye, discarded on the floor. “Does this have bleach in it? You’re killing brain cells.” He switched the fan on.</p><p>Gerry snorted. “If there’s even any left after chemo.”</p><p>Jon excavated a comb from the clutter of the sink counter and brandished it at him. “Do you want my help, or not? Go sit, I can’t see anything properly while you’re towering over me.” He nudged Gerry over, who shuffled to the toilet lid and sat, snickering. Jon hovered next to him, glancing between his saturated scalp and the directions listed on the back of the dye box, attempting to act as if he knew what the hell he was doing. “Right- it says you’re supposed to use petroleum jelly on your hairline to keep it from staining, did you do that?”</p><p>Gerry shrugged. “Nah, we don’t have any.”</p><p>“<em>I </em>do,” Jon said, affronted. “I have Vaseline. You could have asked.”</p><p>“It comes off in a couple of days!” Gerry went to wave Jon off, and then clearly thought better of flapping his dye-covered hand. “It’s fine, I do this all the time without <em>Vaseline.</em>”</p><p>Jon shook his head. “You’re going to have that stain on your nose for a week.”</p><p>“No thanks to you.”</p><p>“Fine, hold still.” Tearing off a small bundle of loo paper, Jon wet it carefully with the tap and leaned in to dab the smudge of dye off of Gerry’s nose. “I don’t know if it’ll come off all the way- <em>Hey!”</em></p><p>Gerry, who had shot his hand up to smear a blob of dye onto Jon’s own nose, grinned remorselessly. “There, see — Now we’ll match.”</p><p>Jon scrubbed at his face, scrunched up and sour. “What the hell was <em>that</em> for?”</p><p>“I-” Gerry paused, letting out a laugh that was vacant and mostly breath. “I dunno.”</p><p>“Well- cut it out,” Jon muttered, unsure exactly why most of his irritation was nothing but a reflex. “How long is this stuff supposed to sit, anyway?”</p><p>“Usually I just leave it for an hour or so,” Gerry said. “To make sure it works? But come to think of it, sometimes that makes me peel.” He scratched his scalp and grimaced.</p><p>“... You might do well to rinse it <em>before</em> it starts burning,” Jon suggested thinly. “Maybe cap it at thirty minutes.”</p><p>“Forty-five,” Gerry countered, “or it might come out this weird sludgy brown at the roots. Trust me, going straight over ginger hair takes some brute force.”</p><p>Jon folded his arms. “Or you could try doing some research.”</p><p>“Yeah, I bet you’d <em>love</em> another excuse to demonstrate your note-taking technique.” Gerry rolled his eyes. “This is just gonna be the cast-iron cookware all over again.”</p><p>“You have to clean them a particular way,” Jon hissed, “or they’ll get <em>damaged-</em>”</p><p>“Okay, Boomer.”</p><p>Jon set the comb down and frowned, remembering his conversation with Martin over tapas. “You know, you’re the second one to make that jab this week. I’m <em>younger</em> than you, in case you forgot.” And there it was again- There was no reason this familiar tease should bother him more than an assault of toxic chemicals in his face, and yet it was digging at him relentlessly.</p><p>“What, I thought you liked the <em>dignity</em> that comes with age,” Gerry ribbed him lightly, oblivious. “Are you telling me you’re finally over the perks of being presumed sixty-five?”</p><p>“It’s <em>hardly</em> sixty-five,” Jon snapped, mortified to find himself avoiding his own reflection in the mirror. “I don’t know, it’s- It’s just getting rather-”</p><p>“Old?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Jon said firmly, before Gerry could look too self-satisfied. “I just want to be taken seriously<em>,</em> I’m not after anybody’s bloody <em>senior discount</em>-”</p><p>“You know, I’ve got plenty of this stuff left over,” Gerry interjected calmly, pointing at the half a tube of dye still lying uncapped on the counter. “If you’re really that twisted about it, toning down the whole… Silver fox situation, that might help.”</p><p>Jon blinked at him. He’d never put much thought into his appearance, at least beyond situations where it needed to communicate something to those around him. Certainly he’d never considered changing it for aesthetic reasons; the idea had never served him before, but somehow it was beginning to seem more appealing. “Wouldn’t that be a mess, though — ?”</p><p>“Jon.” Gerry held up his gloved hands. “I think we’re there.”</p><p>“... Does this stuff really burn?” He asked, picking at his nails with uncertainty, although the longer he thought about it, the less risky it felt.</p><p>“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Gerry got halfway through clapping him on the arm before he remembered this time. “We’ll set a timer for you. It’ll be fine. I’ve done this a hundred times.”</p><p>“Famous last words,” Jon sighed, and the last of his resistance dissolved. “I’m getting the Vaseline, at least.”</p><p>Gerry was, if not meticulous, more careful than he had been with his own hair, brushing it onto the roots with an old paintbrush before gently combing it through. “I used to do mine like this,” he explained, “but it takes a while, and there are better things to save my patience for.” Jon just nodded stiffly and tried to be surreptitious about holding his breath; the fumes were intense, and Gerry seemed totally immune. He couldn’t deny, however, there was a certain innate comfort to being groomed like this, and it stopped him the handful of times he got the urge to jump up and go stick his head out the window.</p><p>“Do you want to do the beard too?” Gerry asked after an indeterminate amount of time spent brushing and combing, which Jon was loath to admit might have put him to sleep if not for the peroxide. “I’m not sure how well it would take, but I mean- You could have kind of a Ben Ravenscroft look going on if it worked out.”</p><p>“Who’s Ben Ravenscroft?” Jon asked, and Gerry paused in digging through the cabinet under the sink for a second shower cap.</p><p>“You know, the sexy writer guy from that old <em>Scooby Doo</em> movie? Voiced by Tim Curry?” Gerry squinted at him. “You haven’t seen it, have you.”</p><p>“Err- Probably not. I rarely sat at the television for the full length of any movie.” Jon stood and pulled back the shower curtain, revealing a plastic hotel shower cap hung on the caddy. He took it and turned back to Gerry. “How have <em>you</em> seen it? I thought you didn’t have TV when you were a child.”</p><p>“I didn’t have <em>cable,</em>” Gerry corrected him. “Our VHS worked just fine, and <em>Scooby-Doo and the Witch’s Ghost</em> was direct to video.” He chuckled. “It was exactly the kind of fake-supernatural kiddie bullshit my mother <em>despised,</em> so naturally I bought it with my own pocket money.”</p><p>Jon shook his head and smiled, knowing that by <em>pocket money</em>, Gerry meant money from other peoples’ pockets. “Sounds like quite a treasured possession.”</p><p>“Oh, you have no idea. Hang on, I think I need to rinse this, and then I feel like I’m duty-bound to screen it for you,” Gerry said, peeling off his shower cap. “Christ, it gets sweaty under these things.”</p><p>“Ew.” Jon moved around him so he could kneel down in front of the bathtub tap. “While you do that… I think, ah. I think I’m going to shave.”</p><p>It turned out that a beard like Jon’s, left to its own devices for such an extended period of time, was reluctant to yield its territory until a pair of clippers joined the confrontation. Even afterwards, Jon nicked himself twice with the razor. By the time he was finished, the dye was ready to rinse, and the water burned running over his fresh cuts as he held his head under the faucet, contorting uncomfortably to make sure the last of the paste was gone from behind his ears. Gerry bundled his head into a towel turban after he shut off the water, steering him out of the fumigated bathroom, and before Jon knew it he was parked in front of the oldest VHS he had ever seen while a twangy cartoon theme played from dusty speakers. “I don’t remember the <em>Scooby-Doo </em>theme being so… Americana.”</p><p>“It’s a cover,” Gerry explained, sprawling out on the ancient couch beside him. “Some American country star. I dunno why, but they like to have big-time musicians do the intros for a lot of these straight-to-VHS films? Anyway, just wait, it gets better.”</p><p>When Ben Ravenscroft did grace the screen, Jon could understand the appeal, at least in the usual vague, intellectual way he understood other peoples’ crushes. “It’s the ponytail, isn’t it,” he offered, although he was honestly guessing.</p><p>Gerry laughed. “Yeah, I guess it gives a certain bad boy edge to the whole scholarly thing he’s got going on.”</p><p>Impulsively as always, Jon tried a joke: “So what you’re saying is I should grow my hair out?”</p><p>This time Gerry laughed much louder, with just a hint of strain. “Sorry, but you couldn’t touch <em>bad boy</em> with a ten foot pole. You’d end up more of a Mr. Darcy.”</p><p>“There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Darcy,” Jon replied with dignity.</p><p>“All I know is Mr. Darcy is a prat.” Gerry dodged the pillow Jon chucked at him with little effort. “But then again, I’ve never read the book.”</p><p>“If I’m going to sit through the rest of this children’s classic, I rather think it’s only fair you educate yourself before you go spreading any more slander,” Jon retorted.</p><p>Gerry slung an arm around the back of the couch and settled in. “ All right, all right. Deal.”</p><p>Because they started the movie with their heads still swaddled in towels, it was over an hour later before Jon got to see the results of Gerry’s handiwork, as he went to wash up before bed. His reflection stopped him in his tracks as he reached for his toothbrush, and he stared for a moment, surprised by the strength of the relief he felt at such a relatively simple change. It wasn’t perfect by any means; there were patches that hadn’t taken the dye completely, and still showed up as a soft, dull grey. But Jon didn’t mind that; it only reminded him of the way he’d looked almost a year ago, before the accident, and— <em>Yes,</em> he thought. <em>That’s it. That’s better.</em></p><p>Stripping away the stark, unignorable evidence of everything he’d gone through last March, all the terror and confusion, it felt <em>good.</em> It wasn’t the grey that bothered him, and it wasn’t a desire to look his age - It was the constant reminder that he’d been <em>changed</em> by what had happened, made into a weaker person, constantly unsure of his footing in a world that felt less welcoming than ever. It had been a long time since Jon felt like he was properly in control of anything, but this, maybe, was a start.</p><p>Gerry knocked on the opposite door. “You decent? I need an elastic.” Jon made a vague noise of assent and Gerry came in, nodding approvingly as soon as he saw him. “Oh, you like it, I can tell.”</p><p>“I think I do,” Jon said carefully, trying not to let on the full extent of how much, although Gerry always seemed to be able to tell these things. “Thank you,” he added after a moment, with the most sincerity he could muster.</p><p>“Oh, don’t mention it,” Gerry said, waving him off. He opened the drawer for an elastic, then hesitated. “You know — What you said earlier? I do take you seriously. So that’s one person.”</p><p>Slightly baffled, Jon stared at him. “No you don’t,” he said, unable to keep the bewilderment out of his voice. “Just tonight, you called me a cut-rate Jane Austen side character.”</p><p>“Well — <em>Yeah,</em>” Gerry said as if Jon was missing something obvious, clearly frustrated. “You called me a walking draft of a rejected <em>Goosebumps</em> novel. But I showed you my old favorite movie, and you watched it with me.”</p><p>“Oh,” said Jon.</p><p>“Yeah, so thank you, you scrawny know-it-all.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” Jon handed him an elastic from the counter. “It wasn’t even terrible.”</p><p>Gerry took it, satisfied, and then glanced at the two of them in the mirror. “Hey, guess what?” He turned to Jon and grinned. “We match.”</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's actually Billy Ray Cyrus who sings the opening theme to Scooby-Doo and the Witch's Ghost, which I cannot get over so hard that I had to tell you here. </p><p>- Luka (shipwreckblue)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Not Stealing Anything</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin meets a goth, then goes antiquing.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin's trip to Devon was … fine, it went fine, pretty much how he'd expected it to go. He'd been eager to get back to London, though, and for once it wasn't (just) because visiting his mum was so painfully awkward. He'd missed Jon, had found excuses to text him the entire time, and treasured every response, no matter how minimal. It was probably a little pathetic, but it also kept his spirits up the whole time he was away.</p><p>And now he was back, and Jon had immediately proposed another antique store expedition for Saturday. It put Martin in a giddy, sentimental mood all week, which in turn put Tim in a decent mood as well, because there was finally something safe to pleasantly rib him about. He did an entire bit about the word “twitterpated” from the old Bambi movie, which Martin only remembered because the whole film terrified him as a child. But he laughed, a little red-faced, when Tim joked about small woodland animals flocking after him in the street because of his twirling, humming cheerfulness.</p><p>(Sasha had looked askance at them the whole time, as if there was something she desperately wanted to say, but Martin wasn't going to give her the opportunity to say it. He <em>wasn't.)</em></p><p>Martin <em>knew</em> better than to get too attached too quickly, but he'd <em>missed </em>spending time with Jon, and he found himself counting down the hours until he could see him again. On Friday night he had a dream about carrying Jon up Mount Doom like Sam and Frodo, and woke up tingling with an almost pleasant embarrassment.</p><p>Jon informed him that they would meet near an antiques shop in Kensington called <em>Loveday,</em> and Martin took careful pains not to dress up for this one, not wanting to jinx it. (Though the dinner-that-wasn't-actually-a-date hadn't ended up being <em>jinxed </em>so much as … confusing.) But he still felt like skipping off the bus, and even the usual grey London weather seemed bright and jolly that afternoon.</p><p>Then Martin reached the corner where they’d arranged to meet, and he found two men already resolutely parked on the bench there. One was small, dark, and bundled in a trench coat that seemed too big for him; he appeared deep in conversation with a gangly man decked in full gothic regalia, sporting multiple piercings, sloppy eyeliner and several tattoos. The kind of guy Martin usually steered clear of at open mics unless he felt like being overpowered with the delicate perfume of cigarette smoke, in other words, and he grimaced when he saw one in the guy’s raised hand.</p><p>He was scanning for somewhere upwind to stand and wait, when he entered earshot and was stunned to recognize Jon’s voice. “It’s just never something I considered before,” he was saying earnestly. “They’re nuts in the shape of a pea. Peas come in pods, and so do they. It makes <em>sense,</em> but, you know — Imagine being the person who named them in English, right?”</p><p>"This is the kind of conversation stoners have,” said the goth guy dryly, taking a drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the bench. “We’re having a stoner conversation, except you are 100% sober right now, you're just <em>like this.</em>”</p><p>“Oh,<em> come </em>on, don’t tell me you’ve ever thought about it either,” Jon shot back. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s pea-sized. A <em>pea nut.</em>”</p><p>Goth guy immediately started sniggering like a teenager. “Say it again.”</p><p>“What, peanut?” Jon sounded puzzled, and Martin felt a surge of irrepressible affection for him.</p><p>“Nah, that’s not what you said.” Goth guy shook his head, his stringy bottle-black hair swinging. “<em>You</em> said <em>pee</em>—”</p><p>“I’m going to skin you alive,” Jon interrupted flatly, and his companion burst into laughter, lunging for him so suddenly that Martin actually gasped, but all he was doing was giving Jon a flat-palm noogie. “Stop it, sto— Gerry, bugger off, we’re in public,” Jon protested, swatting at him, with actual mirth in his voice, making him sound about ten years younger than Martin had ever heard him.</p><p>“Worried the cops will pick me up for character assassination, Mr. Peanutbutter?” Goth guy grinned, and with a strange pang, Martin thought he recognized something very similar to the flash of affection he himself had just felt on this man’s face. Then the goth guy looked up, caught sight of Martin, and narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, you got a problem, mate?”</p><p>“What?” Martin said, mortified, at the same moment Jon finally turned around.</p><p>“Oh! Martin! There you are,” he said brightly, standing up. “Gerry, this is who we’re waiting for, this is Martin.” He started to approach, but snagged his overlarge trench coat on an arm of the bench. “Shit—”</p><p>Gerry, the goth guy — Apparently <em>the</em> Gerry, the one Jon mentioned constantly, Martin thought with mounting dread — caught him calmly by the elbow. “Christ, Sims, I can’t take you anywhere.”</p><p>“Your coat sabotaged me,” Jon retorted, straightening up.</p><p>“Oh, so now I’m ripping off Doctor Strange?” Gerry snorted. He was wearing a t-shirt with what looked like a flaming skull being split by an axe on the front, and something with mesh sleeves underneath. The tattoos on his knuckles were all the same: A simple design of an open eye. He shot Martin another calculating look, as if sizing him up. “Hey, Martin.”</p><p>“... Hi.” Martin wasn’t sure what else to say. Anything he could think of seemed oddly overfamiliar; he felt as if he’d somehow intruded on a private moment between them, even though they were just standing out on a street corner.</p><p>“Sorry, we got here early because we were already out for… A different errand,” Jon explained, a bit sheepish, and brushed his hair out of his eyes.</p><p>Martin blinked. “Oh! Your hair—!” It was black again, nearly exactly as Martin remembered it back when they still worked in the same building. “I — It looks good! Not that— I liked it before, too! But you— you look good, it’s nice.” Christ, could he not think of a better compliment than <em>good?</em> It had taken him long enough to bloody notice it, he’d been so busy processing everything <em>else</em> about their whole encounter so far.</p><p>Jon looked embarrassed that Martin <em>had</em> noticed. “Yes! Yes, I wanted to— I was sick of people mistaking me for ah, you know. A punk-rock grandpa.”</p><p>Martin grimaced, remembering his comment from dinner. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean anything by that, honestly…”</p><p>“No, no,” Jon waved him off hurriedly. “It wasn’t— I just wanted to, really, and Gerry was in the middle of— Anyway! Anyway. Thank you.” After a very awkward pause, he shrugged the trench coat off and thrust it at Gerry. “You can have that back now.”</p><p>“But I thought you were gonna get on my shoulders, so we can sneak into an R-rated film,” Gerry protested lightly, although he took it and shrugged it back on. “Ooh, toasty.”</p><p>Patting his arm absently, Jon shook his head. “Another time.”</p><p>“So,” Martin said, feeling as though he was interrupting yet again. “We’re, er, we’re going to Loveday?” He couldn’t help cringing even as he said it; suffice to say, this was not how he had expected the afternoon to go.</p><p>“Yes,” Jon said briskly, beckoning him. “It’s just down a couple of streets this way.” Martin hurried to fall in step beside him before Gerry could, determined not to feel like a third wheel.</p><p>“Maybe we’ll find a peanut stand on the way there,” Gerry suggested behind them, and Jon rolled his eyes.</p><p>“He was raised by a banshee,” he muttered to Martin. “Just ignore him.”</p><p>Martin just cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. Somehow he didn’t think it was going to be that simple.</p>
<hr/><p>Loveday specialized in furniture, which meant it wasn't exactly the sort of place Jon would've normally looked for diving gloves or a weight harness — the last two pieces left after Gertrude had brought back the (mildly scorched) corselet from Scotland. But Martin had mentioned something offhand about accidentally locking something in a drawer that got Jon thinking, and Gerry had been able to track down auction records, and, well — it wasn't like they were overflowing with options at this point, were they?</p><p>The interior of the shop was very beige, with moody lighting and artfully arranged potted plants that looked, if not poisonous, then at least vaguely threatening. Jon took one look around and immediately wished he'd worn something nicer. At the very least, a shirt with buttons should have been in order. "Right," he said, trying to project more confidence in this project than he actually felt. "So we're looking for an armoire, a writing table and a — a commode."</p><p>Martin's brow crinkled. "Isn't that just another word for toilet?"</p><p>"Also means a chest of drawers," Gerry put in. He had printed off photographs of the specific items, but they were badly-compressed jpegs of low-resolution scans of the original catalogue, which had been in black and white. "And an armoire is a type of wardrobe."</p><p>"I knew <em>that</em>," Martin said, and took his copy of the photos with a bit more force than was probably strictly necessary. "I'm not an <em>idiot."</em></p><p>"Er," Jon said, at a loss.</p><p>Gerry, however, just shoved another print out in Jon's hands and stepped away from them. "We should split up. We'll cover more ground that way."</p><p>"Are you sure?" Jon asked.</p><p>At the same time, Martin said, "No, no, it's fine."</p><p>"This place is the size of a cricket pitch," Gerry said. "And I think there's more upstairs. We'll be here all weekend if we stick together."</p><p>He gave Jon a reassuring pat on the arm and then slunk off among the foliage.</p><p>"Sorry," Martin said; he was cringing. "I shouldn't have snapped."</p><p>"I don't … <em>think </em>he's angry?" Jon said, though honestly, the number of times he'd seen Gerry genuinely angry about something … actually, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen him properly angry, except for one slightly boozy conversation about Jurgen Leitner months ago. Surly, sure, and annoyed, frequently, but actual anger was rare. "And he's not wrong about covering more ground…"</p><p>Martin nodded, and made a hand gesture that, if Jon was being extremely generous, might have somehow represented <em>splitting up</em>. "So, should we…?"</p><p>"I suppose," he said, reluctantly, even though being with Martin or Gerry was usually the only thing that made these sorts of excursions bearable. A thought occurred to him. "Can you pick locks?"</p><p>Martin blinked. "I — what? No! Why would I need to — " He looked around frantically, as though a police officer was liable to materialize at any moment and arrest him for criminal thoughts.</p><p>"Well, we're not going to buy the damned things just on the off chance there's a hidden pair of gloves inside," Jon explained. "Gerry's been teaching me, and I think any locks on old furniture should be simple enough to do on my own…"</p><p>"Why do you know how to pick locks?" Martin whispered, looking utterly scandalized.</p><p>Only then did it occur to Jon that light larceny wasn't necessarily a skill to be expected from rare book dealers. "Er," he said, and thought furiously for a good answer. "It's a … a convenience thing, mainly. Don't have to pay a locksmith if you can just do it yourself, right? And some of the doors around the shop tend to stick…"</p><p>"Right," Martin said, sounding skeptical. "Well, I don't know anything about that, so I guess I'll just have to stick with you."</p><p>"Excellent," Jon said. For some reason, that made Martin blush.</p><p>The layout of the shop reminded Jon of a particularly terrible Ikea, or perhaps what would happen if an Ikea was infested by the Spiral. Everything was arranged in artful clusters, as if trying to evoke how each piece would fit into an actual room, except the groupings would only make sense in the home of a deeply eccentric millionaire with no taste or regard for functionality. Three mismatched armchairs were arranged around a blocky glass-topped table, decorated with a small aloe plant, but where one might expect a fourth chair there was a richly scrolled credenza full of dewey-eyed Hummel figurines. Just a few feet away, a four-posted bed was flanked by an imposing wardrobe and a hand-painted folding screen; a small printed card informed them that the bedclothes were for display only and not included in the purchase price. Around the next corner was a dining table with a bowl of fruit on it; the fruit was apparently artificial, and the bowl cost more than the table did.</p><p>If Jon had his way, the whole thing would be sorted by category — a row of cabinets here, then a section for tables, and so on. Then again, he'd had a similar argument with Gerry about the bookshop, only to be told that sometimes customers not being able to find things was the <em>point. </em>Maybe a few pieces of haunted diving suit weren't the only things lurking in this place…</p><p>"What d'you think this is supposed to be?" Martin asked; when Jon looked, he was holding some sort of abstract bit of pottery at eye level. "Bit top-heavy for a vase, don't you think?"</p><p>"I think," Jon said, barely controlling his voice, "that you should put that down before we are obligated to <em>buy </em>it."</p><p>Martin didn't seem to get what he meant for a moment, and then suddenly he did, and his grasp on the not-a-vase immediately became a death grip. "Oh. Oh! Sorry, sorry—"</p><p>He placed it gingerly on a small table, presumably its original location, and then tried to step away with exaggerated caution. In doing so, he nearly collided with a completely different, far less structurally sound table, which was decorated with a set of delicate blown-glass bottles. Or possibly cats. Cat bottles? Most importantly: <em>glass. </em></p><p>Heart in throat, Jon grabbed Martin by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him to the side. Despite the difference in their heights, he succeeded in steering him away from the cat bottles. Unfortunately, Martin's momentum kept him staggering to one side, and he attempted to grab Jon's shoulders for stability, which meant he was <em>also </em>suddenly spinning to one side, too quickly to be sure how many thousands of pounds of antique furniture they were about to obliterate in a completely preventable pratfall—</p><p>Except they didn't. Martin threw out a hand, and found a regular support beam, not some fragile piece of artwork. Jon found his feet, and for a moment they stood there, frozen, with one of Martin's hands still gripping Jon's arm and Jon's hands still fisted in Martin's coat. Jon hardly dared to breathe, and Martin looked equally wall-eyed, if significantly more flushed.</p><p>Very carefully, Jon forced his hands to relax. "I think," he said, "it would be very wise not to touch anything."</p><p>"Yeah," Martin said, sounding dazed. He shook himself a bit as Jon stepped away.</p><p>There were no further mishaps as they roamed the shop, occasionally checking a likely-looking piece against the photographs. Martin (who otherwise kept his hands thrust deep in his pockets) seemed to have a better eye for these things than Jon did, though perhaps that was just because Jon didn't particularly care about the subtle differences between Georgian and Regency or Biedermeier and Bauhaus. "It's supposed to be made of maple," Martin insisted when Jon pointed out a writing table that seemed to fit the style. "That's mahogany."</p><p>"How am I supposed to tell what wood it's made out of?" Jon protested.</p><p>Martin waved his phone at him. "This says maple has little spots on it?"</p><p>Jon, feeling petty, googled the same thing. "That's <em>birds-eye maple</em>," he announced. "The auction listing just said <em>maple. </em>And anyway, it's supposed to be finished in a <em>warm reddish gold with an</em> <em>excellent patina, </em>whatever that means, and this is clearly red."</p><p>"Well, it's also got drawer-pulls the size of a saucer," Martin pointed out, "and I'm pretty sure even this picture would show that."</p><p>Jon checked all the drawers anyway, but there was nothing to find except a couple of moth balls. "Fine. Let's keep looking."</p><p>Martin twisted his copy of the pictures between his hands. "Maybe we could ask one of the staff to help?"</p><p>"Have you even <em>seen </em>any of the staff?" Jon retorted. "Besides, I don't think we can just walk out with something we found in a drawer if they're standing over us."</p><p>Martin looked aghast. "What, we're going to <em>steal </em>it?" he asked, far too loudly.</p><p>Jon shushed him. "It's not stealing," he said frantically. "It's not — they don't know the gloves or whatever are here, right? They haven't put a price tag on them. So we're not stealing anything, we're just removing something that doesn't belong."</p><p>It was, almost word-for-word, the same logic Gerry had used to persuade him some months ago when they'd shoplifted a possessed locket. Minus the actual possession bits, obviously, because this definitely wasn't the time to get into <em>that </em>right now.</p><p>Unlike Jon had, Martin dug in his heels a bit. "I really don't think the police would agree with that."</p><p>"Which is why we're trying not to <em>involve </em>them," Jon said, a bit desperately. "I know it doesn't seem exactly, well, <em>sporting, </em>but we really can't afford to spend thousands of pounds on this. I don't even know where we'd put another wardrobe."</p><p>Martin bit his lip, and Jon waited for him to refuse, or cause a scene. But instead, what came out of his mouth was, "Well, in that case, maybe — I mean, you can text Gerry, and have him circle around behind us while we create a distraction…?" He shook his head. "No, never mind, that's a stupid idea."</p><p>"It's an option," Jon said, though truthfully he was just relieved that Martin wasn't going to make more of a stink about it all. And a bit guilty, for involving him in a minor criminal action without squaring it with him beforehand, but, well—</p><p>Fortunately for his conscience, his phone buzzed. It was Gerry, of course, and he sent a photograph: the wardrobe from the auction listing (or armoire, or whatever). A few moments later, another text arrived: <em>no luck.</em></p><p>"Damn," Jon muttered, but he showed Martin the text. "That's definitely it, though, right?"</p><p>"Oh, yeah." Martin unfolded his printed photograph again (the paper was starting to look a little worn) and held it up for a side-by-side comparison. "So that's what it means by <em>warm reddish gold."</em></p><p>"Not really <em>red </em>at all, is it?"</p><p>"I mean, it's got red <em>in </em>it."</p><p>"That's <em>brown, </em>Martin. They could've just said <em>brown."</em></p><p>"Well, if that's brown, then they're <em>all </em>brown. It's not helpful."</p><p>"And <em>warm reddish gold </em>is?"</p><p>"Yeah," he said, in a cajoling tone. "It's like — look, it's a bit like the color of good tea just after you've poured the water over, before it's had time to properly steep. That first bloom of color against the inside of the cup."</p><p>"Very poetic," Jon grumbled, and Martin got pink in the face again. "The other two items are supposed to have the same finish, yes? So that should speed things up now that we have a color picture."</p><p>"Not sure why they'd display them in different parts of the shop if they're meant to be a set," Martin said.</p><p>"Not sure why anything would be displayed in such a disorganized, illogical, overly precious, ostentatious — <em>twee —"</em></p><p>Jon realized he'd given up on syntax and was now just listing irritating adjectives, but it felt good to vent, and Martin — Martin was clearly struggling not to smile at him, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Which didn't exactly give Jon much incentive to stop.</p><p>What did stop him was a buttery-smooth over his shoulder, asking quietly, "Can I help you, sir?"</p><p>Shit. Jon turned around, mouth hanging open in mid-phrase, and found a woman with a name badge on her blazer standing behind him. She had the glassy smile of someone prepared to deal with The Public, and Jon had the sinking suspicion that The Public was him.</p><p>"Er," he said, since it had worked so well previously.</p><p>"Hi," Martin said, too loudly, and took Jon's phone from him. "We were just looking for some, er, furniture, but not this furniture. Different furniture! Could you possibly help us?"</p><p>The woman with the blazer — <em>Aisling, </em>according to her badge — cocked her head. "Of course, sir! What are you in the market for?"</p><p>"Well, we, er, we found this armor — amon — wardrobe," Martin stammered, "but it's a teensy bit outside our price range for the moment, but we really love the color."</p><p>He showed her the picture Gerry had texted. "Oh, yes," she said. "That's an excellent finish. Good patina."</p><p>"Like tea," Jon put in, just to feel like he was contributing something.</p><p>"We were wondering what else you had in that same finish? Preferable, I don't know, something in maple?"</p><p>Aisling was happy to talk about the pros and cons of maple furniture while leading them through the maze of furniture. The first few items were more or less a color match but not part of the set they were looking for — a credenza, a small end table. Once Jon had overcome his initial panic, he was able to come up with a story — "We're just browsing for now, really, trying to set a budget."</p><p>"Oh, I understand," Aisling said, but with an up-and-down glance at Jon's clothes that suggested she didn't believe him for a moment.</p><p>Then she brought them to the writing table, the exact one from the auction listing. It had been posted with a hideous umbrella stand and a wing-back leather chair; there was a spider plant on top of it. Jon knelt down, on the pretext of examining the drawer pulls, and tugged on them each in turn without—</p><p>
  <strong>here</strong>
</p><p>The knowledge hit him like a thunderclap before he'd even opened the last drawer. Above him, Aisling was still going on about the wood grain. Jon pressed his hands firmly against the drawer, trying frantically to think of a way to lose her so he could double back and have a proper look inside.</p><p>"Did you have a question?" she asked, leaning over him.</p><p>"N-no," Jon said. "No, I think — I think this one to keep in mind."</p><p>"It is?" Martin asked, brow furrowing.</p><p>"Yes," Jon said. "But we should also ask our — our <em>business partner</em> about it," Jon said.</p><p>Martin looked utterly lost. "Oh!" Aisling said. "You two are in business together?"</p><p>"Something like that," Jon said. "Come along, what's next?"</p><p>While she kept telling them about the incredible parquetry on another table, Jon tried to take several subtle photos of the table and its surroundings, and then rapidly texted them to Gerry. <em>Bottom drawer, left side. Something's in it, we're trying to distract the staff.</em></p><p>He got a thumbs-up emoji in response. God, he hoped this worked.</p><p>By the time Aisling had run out of tea-colored furniture to show them, Jon was about to vibrate out of his skin. Martin kept meeting his eyes every so often and making faces at him, but Jon couldn't have begun to divine what they were meant to be communicating. He tried texting him behind Aisling's back, but Martin ignored it. Damn.</p><p>"Well, thank you <em>very </em>much," Jon said when he couldn't stand it any longer. "I think you've given us … a lot to think about!"</p><p>"I hope it's been helpful," Aisling said, with the Teflon smile of someone fully aware she's just wasted half her afternoon. "And I do hope you keep Loveday in mind when you're ready to begin redecorating."</p><p>Jon all but dragged Martin out of the shop, back into the street; the sun was far lower than when they went in, and the air signficantly colder. He wished he'd worn a better jacket. "What was that all about?" Martin asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the door.</p><p>"If I had to look at another <em>excellent conversation piece, </em>I was going to break something," Jon confessed.</p><p>"That's not — what about the desk?" Martin demanded. "Did you find something or didn't you?" he asked. "Because we can't go back now—"</p><p>"Oi!" From the nearest intersection, Gerry waved at them; he was holding his coat closed with his other hand. "Over here!"</p><p>"We don't <em>have </em>to go back," Jon told Martin, and tugged on his sleeve. "Come on."</p><p>Gerry was skulking at the mouth of a short alley between buildings, looking altogether like a cartoon villain from the eighties who was about to sell them drugs or something. "What took you so long?" he demanded as Jon and Martin approached.</p><p>"We had to lose the sales person," Jon said. "What was it?"</p><p>"What was what?" Martin asked, looking bewildered and cranky.</p><p>In response, Gerry let his coat fall partway open. Fastened around his waist — doubled, actually, because otherwise it would've slid right past his hips and around his knees — was a thick leather belt with straps dangling off it. Spaced at intervals around the belt were thick, buckle-like metal weights, four or five inches square, their dark surfaces still flecked in places with salt. "Excellent," Jon said, as Gerry covered it up again. "I knew there was something in that desk."</p><p>"What?" Martin asked. "How?"</p><p>"Jon's a genius, didn't you know?" Gerry groused, while Jon was at a loss for words. "He went to <em>Oxford." </em></p><p>"Oh, <em>well," </em>Martin said, fluttering one hand.</p><p>"Hey!" Jon protested. "I wasn't — I don't — it was a hunch, okay?"</p><p>"Bloody good one," Gerry said. "And good job keeping the staff distracted and all, but would it have killed you to wrap it up thirty minutes ago? This thing weighs like twenty pounds."</p><p>"It was Martin's idea," Jon said, as they headed away from the shop.</p><p>"What was?" Martin asked blankly.</p><p>Jon blinked at him. "Us distracting her while Gerry doubled back to get the harness?"</p><p>"Oh!" Martin scratched at the back of his neck. "Right. I didn't — didn't actually think you were going to do it, though."</p><p>"Well, clearly Mr. Blackwood here has a budding criminal mind," Gerry said warmly, and gave off holding his coat shut long enough to punch Martin's upper arm. "Good thinking."</p><p>If Martin blushed any more, Jon was certain, he wouldn't have enough blood to keep operating his legs. "I don't," he stammered, "I mean — it wasn't really stealing, was it? Just … removing something that didn't belong."</p><p>"Exactly," Jon said, glaring at Gerry. "Nothing criminal about that at all."</p><p>"Right," Gerry said, clearly getting the message. "Totally square. Now can we get out of here before I slip a disc or something?"</p>
<hr/><p>They ended up stopping for food before parting ways, which Gerry appreciated; skipping meals had gotten a lot harder since the chemo, and while he probably wasn't going to pass out from hunger at this stage of recovery, he'd learned his lesson about getting his proteins in. Also, it was a Thai place, so Gerry had a good excuse to order something blindingly spicy instead of watching Jon and Martin make googly eyes at each other.</p><p>No, no, that was unfair. For one thing, Jon's eyes weren't so much <em>googly </em>as unable to focus on anything for more than thirty seconds at a time, which meant he was nervous. For another … it was nice. Martin was nice, charming, very sweet, apparently sporting hidden depths. He looked at Jon like Jon was the best thing in the universe, and, well, Gerry couldn't exactly blame him.</p><p>He could, however, use a potentially lethal amount of sriracha, which made Martin stare at him and ask, "Are — are you okay?"</p><p>Gerry gave a thumbs up in his general direction.</p><p>"He lost his sense of smell in the war, you see," Jon said melodramatically, "and he never had any taste to begin with, so this is the only way he can experience joy."</p><p>"Up yours," Gerry retorted when he could breathe properly again. "Just because you were raised to think <em>paprika </em>was a dangerously potent seasoning doesn't mean we all have to suffer."</p><p>"Oh, yes," Jon shot back. "As opposed to <em>your </em>mother, who I assume seasoned her food with the blood of her enemies?"</p><p>"Eh, could be anyone's blood, really," Gerry said. "She's not picky." And because Martin was looking vaguely horrified, he added, "We're joking. It's a thing we do."</p><p>"Right," Martin said, and attempted to eat a bite of pad thai that had fallen off his fork minutes ago.</p><p>They said awkward, overly long goodbyes to each other, and it was fine, honestly, Gerry was fine with it. Happy to see Jon made a friend. More than a friend. Whatever. (He could be fine and also very, very resentful of the smoking ban just then.) At least when they finally got on the Northern line headed south, Gerry could sling the weight belt over his shoulder instead of continuing to waddle around with it around his waist.</p><p>"So that's this sorted," he said. "Just leaves the gloves, right?"</p><p>Jon was staring out the window, watching the featureless tunnels zip by in darkness. "Hm?"</p><p>"I said," Gerry said slowly, "that we're just looking for the gloves now, right?"</p><p>"Oh. Right." Jon rubbed his eyes. "Christ only knows where we're going to find those, though."</p><p>Something wasn't right. Jon had been very nearly <em>twitterpated </em>when they left Martin in the ticket hall, and now he looked like somebody had murdered his puppy. "You okay?" Gerry asked warily.</p><p>"I just…" Jon sighed. "I just don't like misleading him, is all. About … all this."</p><p>Something cold curdled in Gerry's stomach. "Would he believe it if you told him?" he asked carefully.</p><p>"About the ghost? I mean, maybe. He does work at the Magnus Institute." Jon gnawed on this thumbnail. "But the rest of it …. He was properly upset when he realized how we were going to procure the belt. And I feel like I railroaded him into it by not being straight with him from the beginning."</p><p>"He didn't seem bothered by it afterward," Gerry said, forcing himself to keep his voice level.</p><p>"True. I just … I don't like lying to him." Jon paused. "But I don't know how to stop."</p><p><em>Same, </em>Gerry thought, but managed not to break into hysterical laughter at the thought. Instead, he forced himself to say, "Maybe it won't even matter. Y'know, if we get this haunting sorted, does he — do you even have to tell him?"</p><p>"I suppose not," Jon allowed. "Doesn't mean I feel good about it."</p><p>Fuck it. Some things needed to be said. "Maybe this is the wrong line of work for you, then. Maybe time to start looking for a change."</p><p>Jon just scoffed. "Right. Like I could go anywhere else at this point."</p><p>And because Gerry was a horrible person, he clung to that thought, all the way back to Morden.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fun Fact: The conversation Gerry and Jon have about peanuts is based on a real-life conversation I had with my real-life partner of seven years. </p><p>- Luka (shipwreckblue)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Crusty Books and Shipwreck Salvage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin navigates a workplace conflict, then witnesses a shocking event. Jon gets a bloody nose.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Really the unfair thing was that Sasha had been suspicious of him <em>smiling</em> at a <em>text.</em> As if Martin didn’t have any friends outside of work who could have sent him something cheery and amusing, like a funny tweet that made them think of him. As if the only bloody people Martin talked to these days were Sasha, Tim, Rosie, the nurses at his mum’s facility, and the assistant at the suspicious bookshop he’d been previously investigating for theft.</p><p>It was technically true, but the fact that she had <em>assumed</em> it was what stung him. Martin had always been good at making friends; it was just tough to keep many of them when his adult life mainly involved fielding a series of neverending disasters. Nobody <em>normal</em> wanted to listen to him talk about how most of his coworkers had died in a terrible accident, or how his mum was currently battling issues with incontinence. It was easier with Tim and Sasha, who didn’t need him to explain himself constantly, because they already knew, more or less. And with Jon.</p><p>Jon had actually just sent a message thanking him again for a lead on the gloves that had finally panned out. They had been the last piece of the diving suit left to track down, and the most complicated, as they were even more nondescript than the boots. But Martin had spent a few minutes chatting with the pleasant middle-aged lady who owned a dive shop in Clapham, and she was able to point them in the right direction.</p><p><em>I don’t know *why* we never thought of looking into dive shops as well as antiques,</em> Jon had messaged him feverishly last weekend, and Martin had allowed himself a moment to feel distinctly self-important before he demurred. Now, the suit was complete, and ready for their commissioner… whatever that meant. All of Martin’s more specific questions had been subtly deflected, and that did prickle him a bit. But then again, on repeat visits to Pinhole he had seen some distinctly non-book items among the usual displays, which matched Jon's explanations about the occasional special transaction. That was normal, surely. No bookshop sold books<em> exclusively</em> any longer, not in the current economy.</p><p>And yet Sasha just couldn’t let it go.</p><p>"Is that a note from your 'friends' at Pinhole Books?" she asked, with just enough inflection on <em>friends </em>to make the quotation marks obvious.</p><p>"Not that it's any of your business," Martin said, "But yes, it's from Jon."</p><p>"And how are they faring lately?"</p><p>Martin had been bullied enough in school to instantly recognize that kind of faux-solicitousness, and to know what was likely to follow. He wasn't fifteen anymore, though, and he didn't have to put up with patronizing, even from someone he'd thought a few months ago was a friend. "What do you want, Sasha?"</p><p>She looked vaguely surprised that he wasn't playing along. "I'm just worried about you, Martin. I keep telling you—"</p><p>"Yeah, you do," he said shortly. "And I'm getting sick of it."</p><p>“There’s something <em>wrong</em> with what’s going on in that shop, Martin," she insisted. "They’re not telling you everything!”</p><p>“They’re not <em>obligated</em> to tell me everything!” he snapped, finally, after exhausting what he considered a Herculean effort of patience. “I don’t <em>work</em> for them! I don't live there! And even if I did, <em>I'm </em>not obligated to say anything to <em>you!"</em> Sasha didn’t answer right away, only pressed her lips into a very thin line, and that was response enough. Martin stood up from his desk, a hot bolt of frustration coursing up his spine. “Okay, fine, you think I’m not being <em>investigative</em> enough. Do you want to take over? Go through our text history?” He brandished his phone in Sasha’s direction. “Maybe I can help you break into the shop, or snap some cryptid photos of Gertrude at a distance—?!”</p><p>To her credit, Sasha remained more composed than he did, although only just, clenching her fists at her sides and exhaling sharply through her nose. “Do you know what happened to the previous owner of Pinhole Books?" she asked, because of course she had some tidbit she wanted to throw in his face, or else she wouldn't have brought it up again. "Gerard Keay was charged with her murder back in 2008. Charges only dropped on a technicality, and now he owns the place."</p><p>Martin spread his arms. “Okay! So that’s … really messed up, but what has it got to do with Jon or Gertrude?! We all—" His breath hitched, but he soldiered on. “We all thought Jon was probably gone too, but he was never on the list! Now you think he’s part of some underground criminal theft ring that only deals in crusty books and shipwreck salvage? I know this whole thing has been — has been <em>bad,</em> Sasha, but that’s no excuse—”</p><p>Sasha tossed her hair over her shoulder infuriatingly. “What, are you going to tell me I should go to therapy again?”</p><p>Martin could feel his face flushing heavily, and he banged his laptop shut with more force than necessary. “Well, it might stop you acking like such a — a paranoid <em>maniac</em>!”</p><p>“Jesus Christ,” said Tim, taking out his earbuds. They both jumped, having all but forgotten he was there. He swiveled in his chair, looking bewildered. “What exactly did I miss, here?”</p><p>Sasha started to say something that included the phrase <em>exercise in denial,</em> and Martin blocked out the rest, stuffing his things haphazardly into his bag, his face burning with humiliation. “I’m gonna work in the library,” he barked, and left without looking at either of them, banging the door shut and stalking down the hall. For once, he was suddenly glad that the building was mostly empty, so at least no one was around to stare curiously at the commotion.</p><p>The problem was that Sasha was <em>right;</em> Jon and his… friend, or whatever Gerry was, they weren’t telling him everything. Martin had been a career liar for most of his life, and he could tell Jon, at least, was a rather pathetic amateur. There was something deeply suspicious about how casually they'd shoplifted the weight belt from Loveday, how it hadn't even seemed to occur to Jon that it was a crime before Martin pointed it out. But they had seemed so genuinely grateful for Martin’s help, and Jon had asked him to dinner, and they’d made jokes about Pinky and the Brain, for god’s sake. It was truly difficult to imagine they bore him ill intent.</p><p>Gertrude, on the other hand… Jon seemed to think there were reasons to be suspicious of Gertrude. The whole George Icarus affair had wrapped up so neatly. Martin had interacted with Gertude at only the barest minimum, and he got the distinct impression that was on purpose. It could always be that Martin put her off, but there could be another reason she operated at such a cold distance from him. Maybe she didn’t want to be questioned. Maybe she had something over Jon that kept him from telling the truth...</p><p>But about <em>what?</em> Martin cursed under his breath as he slung his bag onto one of the many empty library tables. Declan waved at him as he pushed the shelving cart around the corner, and Martin morosely waved back. Gertrude was a paranoid woman who had faked her death … for some reason. Jon had gone to work for her instead of coming back to the Institute … for some reason. Gerry had apparently murdered somebody? Or been accused of it, he corrected himself, innocent until proven guilty, and even if it was just a technicality, it still wasn't proof. He didn't even know where to begin getting his head around that, how to match up <em>murder suspect </em>with the lanky goth that Jon seemed so openly fond of, and who seemed … maybe more than just fond of Jon? And who was working with two ex-Institute employees to sell spooky books (and miscellaneous antiques) … for some reason.</p><p>“Fine, that settles it,” he muttered to himself, his voice muffled by the rows of dusty shelves surrounding him, all slightly emptier thanks to some mystery thief who might or might not be dead. Another hour, and then he would go pay the good folks at Pinhole a visit. Ask some proper questions, if only to have something to throw back in Sasha's face. Jon would probably find it hilarious.</p><p>On the train there it occurred to Martin that they weren’t expecting him at the shop; he hadn’t texted Jon to let him know he was coming. He decided this was a good thing, if he wanted answers. The element of surprise would give him an edge.</p><p>Except, as he approached the shop from the station, he could tell right away that he might not have much of an edge after all, because the door to the shop was propped open with a brick. This was unusual, especially with Pinhole’s general policy of attempting to discourage walk-in shoppers.</p><p>As Martin approached the door, he was alarmed to hear a series of distant thumps echoing down the stairwell, along with what might have been a shout. Christ, were they being <em>robbed</em> up there—? But then why would a robber prop the door open with a brick? And come to think of it, Martin had never actually seen a cash register anywhere in the shop, though Jon had a tendency to bring too much cash with him when they were shopping for something. How much money did they even keep on the premises?</p><p>Another thump, louder this time, and what sounded like a lot of sloshing water. Martin decided he was done hesitating; he’d come here for answers, after all. Still, he took the stairs carefully, with light footfalls —</p><p>At least until halfway up, when he noticed a trickle of water round the corner of the threshold and start to dribble down the flight. He picked up his pace, both hands gripping the strap of his bag, in case he needed to hoist it up in front of him like a shield. Then he stepped into the shopfront.</p><p>Martin’s first idea was that someone, inexplicably, had put on the diving suit. They had cleared the floor of the display room, hauled all the shelves up haphazardly against one wall, and draped whatever was left with heavy plastic sheets; someone had put on the diving suit, except it was so heavy that they appeared to need Gerry’s help standing upright in it. Both Gerry <em>and</em> Jon’s help, Martin corrected himself, as the wearer of the suit swayed wildly and Jon came into view on their other side, clutching its other arm. They were each soaked, as if someone had dumped a pitcher of water over their heads. Gerry’s eyeliner was running. Gertrude stood a few meters away from them, wearing goggles and hefting a massive sack of what looked like dirt, and should have been far too heavy for a woman her age. None of them had noticed him yet.</p><p>Martin opened his mouth to ask who it was wearing the suit, and why they felt the need to test it out in the middle of the shop at five in the afternoon, but then he noticed the little hinged window at the front of the bonnet, the one you were supposed to use to talk to people, was hanging open. That seemed right, if there was someone in the suit, but they now appeared to be wrestling wildly to get free of Jon and Gerry’s grip, thrashing and kicking out, and Martin couldn’t see anyone’s face through the clattering opening. Then, as he watched, the glass panel swung wide and a humongous gout of dark water gushed from the bonnet, splashing onto the front of Jon’s sweater while he spluttered and cursed. There was a strong, nauseating smell of seaweed. A piece of it was caught in Gerry’s hair.</p><p>Martin tried to exclaim something like: <em>What the fuck?! </em>Except it came out squeaky and unintelligible, more like: “Whahufah?”</p><p>Every single person in the room turned to look at him, including the diving suit, although there couldn’t <em>possibly</em> be a person in there along with that much water. There couldn’t possibly be that much water inside the <em>suit,</em> and there was no hose anywhere, so where on earth was it <em>coming</em> from?</p><p>Before Martin could articulate any of this, the suit gave a great heave towards him, and a wave of water splashed out from the helmet onto the floor. Martin shrieked, and very nearly fell down the stairs. Gerry swore vehemently as the suit — thing — <em>whatever</em> it was took the opportunity to yank itself free of his grip. For an awful moment, Martin thought it was going to come towards him, but instead it swung its arm around to grip the back of Jon’s head. There was a split second where it looked like the two figures were locked in a tender embrace, but then the diving suit <em>smashed Jon’s face against the window of the bonnet,</em> water gushing heavily out on all sides, and Martin lurched forward without a single coherent thought. <em>“Jon!”</em></p><p>Gerry got there first, lunging for the bonnet and attempting to wrestle the suit into some kind of chokehold while Jon fought tooth and nail against its grip on the back of his head. Together, they managed to pry Jon’s face away from the window, Gerry by driving repeated kicks to the back of the suit’s knees, forcing its head backwards, and Jon by leveraging almost his entire body against the chest of the thing, one foot planted on the weight belt. It went down; Gerry went down underneath it, and Jon spun away, collapsing onto his knees and retching seawater. Martin stumbled towards him, head spinning, but then Gertrude was in his way, shoving the bag of dirt she’d been holding into his arms. “Take this!”</p><p>Martin took it. Her voice was sharp, level, commanding. She drew a spade from her waistband and stabbed the sack of dirt in his arms, tearing it open. “Hold it still,” Gertrude commanded Gerry, who had wrangled one of the suit’s arms behind its back. The glove of the other arm had come off, and more seawater was pouring out onto the floor. “Quickly,” Gertrude barked, dragging the sack and Martin with it over to the bonnet. “This needs to go in the hole, <em>now.</em>”</p><p>Fumbling with stiff fingers, Martin crouched down and helped her to shake dry, powdery dirt into the window of the helmet. He was still wearing his shoulder bag, and it kept bumping and pinching him uncomfortably while he tilted the bottom of the sack and Gertrude lined it up with the opening. A plume of dust went up, and Gerry coughed miserably. Muddy water was bubbling up through the hole, but Gertrude had the spade in her other hand, and kept jabbing at the sludgy mess every time it seemed to be blocked up. In his periphery, Martin registered Jon crawling over to pin the suit’s writhing legs, flopping exhaustedly across the length of them. Gertrude issued another command that Martin didn’t quite catch, something about it needing to be banished <em>whole,</em> and he watched dazedly as Jon scrambled over to cram the glove back onto the still-spouting loose arm of the suit. It didn’t make sense, but <em>none</em> of it made sense; once the glove was back in place, the flailing and thrashing began to subside, the movements of the diving suit becoming sluggish and subdued.</p><p>Gertrude slammed the bonnet window shut and held it. The metal bits actually appeared to be corroding before Martin’s eyes, copper grit fusing the hinges in place. He noticed, at some point, that the sack was empty, and dropped it. It landed with the label facing upwards: <em>CONCRETE.</em></p><p>Jon’s nose was bleeding, and bruises were already blooming around both of his eyes; the top half of his face must have smashed against the rim of the helmet, or maybe he was struck while trying to break away. He still helped Gerry lug the limp weight of the suit off of himself, after Gertrude had firmly locked the little opening. She jabbed the canvas of the suit warily with the spade, but it didn’t move again, and appeared to be somehow deflating. Apparently satisfied, Gertrude stood and stripped off her goggles. “Should be able to dismantle it soon,” she declared, brushing dust off the front of her trousers, which were <em>work</em> trousers, Martin realized. Gertrude had <em>dressed for the occasion.</em></p><p>“What,” he said, haltingly, testing his voice to see if it still worked. “What, in the <em>hell</em>, just happened?”</p><p>Nobody answered; Jon was pressing the edge of his sleeve to his bloodied nose, and Gerry was offering him a bandanna instead, one arm around his shoulders. “Tilt your head forward, not back, or you’ll choke,” he murmured.</p><p>“I will dot <em>choge</em> to death od <em>dose blood</em>, Gerard,” Jon said thickly, but he took the bandanna. He was avoiding Martin’s eyes.</p><p>To Martin’s left there was a soft click, and then a low, quiet hiss. He turned to watch Gertrude opening up the flame of a propane torch against the seal of the bonnet window. Numbly, he sat down where he’d been standing, and watched her heat the ring of the seal. The corroded metal began to warp strangely. By the time she’d finished and straightened up, it was fused shut.</p><p>Then Gertrude looked up at Martin, and her eyes seemed to pare him down to the bone. For a moment, he wasn't sure how to breathe.</p><p>"Let's have a cup of tea," Gertrude said. She shut off the torch, twisted the valve on the propane tank shut, and walked away.</p><p>The only thing Martin could stammer was, "W-what?"</p><p>But Jon just heaved himself to his feet and followed Gertrude, with hardly a backwards glance at him; Gerry produced a set of bin bags, and started gingerly packing up the filthy, corroded, concrete-filled diving suit. He glanced up when he noticed Martin gaping at him. "You could run away," he said, weary but conversational, as if this was a thing he did all the time. "I wouldn't stop you."</p><p>It hadn't occurred to Martin that any of them <em>would </em>stop him, and he wasn't reassured to have it pointed out. "D-do you want me to go?"</p><p>Gerry shrugged, one-sided. "Doesn't much matter what I want. But if you're not running, you'd better have that cup of tea."</p><p>Carefully, clinging to one wobbling book shelf the whole time, Martin clambered back to his feet. He glanced at the door, which would lead him back onto the street, and back to his flat, and back to … well … to the same world that had produced the diving suit, and the grimoires, and everything else, for that matter. He just wouldn't have to look at it.</p><p>Jon had gone with Gertrude though.</p><p>Martin followed him, giving the still-dripping Gerry a wide berth.</p><p>He found them in the kitchen. Jon had washed the blood off his face, pat dry with a tea towel, and was applying a bag of frozen peas to his nose and eyes. Gertrude, by contrast, was sat at the table, with four mugs in front of her. The kettle clicked as Martin sat down; Jon passed it blindly to Gertrude, and she poured the tea.</p><p>"You have questions," she said, pushing one mug in Martin's direction.</p><p>That threatened to pull a laugh out of him, but Martin wasn't sure he could stave off full-on hysterics if he went that route. "Yeah, um," he managed, "what<em> was </em>that?"</p><p>"That was a ghost," Gertrude said, as if it should've been obvious. "Animated by an entity called the Vast, or sometimes Infinitum, or There-Is-No-Edge-Of-It. It was anchored to the diving suit, and once we had assembled all the parts, I was able to banish it."</p><p>"Right." Martin stared into the steaming surface of the mug. "What?"</p><p>Gertrude sighed. Jon shifted the bag of peas slightly so he could at last look Martin in the eye. "It's real, Martin," he said quietly. "For every hundred nonsense statements that passed through the Institute, there were always one or two that were real."</p><p>"But that's imposs—" Martin blurted, except, well, obviously <em>not; </em>he'd just seen it, hadn't he? He shook his head. "I mean, wouldn't people know, by now, if ghosts were real? Wouldn't everyone know?"</p><p>"They are by nature difficult to document," Gertrude explained, "and they prey on the margins of our world, isolated places and vulnerable people. That makes the usual standards of scientific evidence quite difficult to reach."</p><p>"<em>Our </em>world? As opposed to what?"</p><p>She took a sip of her tea, and then folded her hands again. "First you must understand: There exist supernatural entities of incredible power that reflect and feed on the fears of all living creatures, but most commonly humans. The Vast is one such; there are several others, although the exact number is … disputed. They are outside the world as we know it, but they can interact with it through certain channels, such as the ghost you just saw."</p><p>"And you — <em>we</em> just … killed it?"</p><p>"Technically it was already dead," Jon said; Martin glared at him.</p><p>"I have dedicated my life to the study of these entities," Gertrude said, ignoring both the question and the aside. "Though without the backing of the Institute, I've had to change my modus operandi somewhat, as you just saw. The Institute's Artefact Storage was full of objects touched by the entities, and likely still is, but we need to deal with them in a more … terminal fashion."</p><p>"Now you're being melodramatic," Gerry said, causing Martin to jump about a foot in the air and spill his tea. "Sorry! Sorry. Jon, chuck us a towel."</p><p>Jon tossed a towel in their direction, and Gerry mopped up the spill because Martin's hands were shaking too much to do it. His thoughts were racing, scattered, everywhere at once — that was why everyone from Artefact Storage was like that, he'd been handling a haunted diving suit for months without knowing it, what qualified as a <em>channel, </em>what counted as an <em>entity, </em>what did <em>terminal </em>mean, did anyone else at the Institute <em>know—</em></p><p>"Is that why you burned the archives?" he blurted out.</p><p>Gerry froze in his tea-toweling; Jon dropped his bag of peas, revealing the start of some quite dramatic bruising. Gertrude, however, gave Martin a small smile. "Very perceptive of you. I did burn the Archives, and I did it because the Institute was created as a temple for another of the entities, a far more dangerous one than the suit you just saw."</p><p>"But — but all those people —"</p><p>"Yes. A tragic accident," Gertrude said. Her voice softened a bit, but she was still unsettlingly calm. "I had no intention of the fire spreading beyond the Archives, but I didn't anticipate the fire suppression system's malfunctioning in quite such a disastrous fashion. By the time I realized what had happened, it was already too late to save anyone."</p><p>Martin looked to Jon again. He wasn't sure what he was searching for: confirmation of her story? Shared horror at the matter-of-fact way she recounted lives lost? An explanation for how this hadn't come up the entire time they'd been — been — <em>whatever </em>they were doing?</p><p>Jon met Martin's gaze. He grimaced, and slapped the frozen peas back over his face.</p><p>"So that — that's why you're here," Marin said shakily. "Letting everyone think you're dead. Because if they knew you were alive, someone would work out that you set the fire, and hold you responsible for — for — "</p><p>"Precisely," Gertrude said, remorselessly. "I didn't tamper with the CO2 system, but I have no way of proving that. And on the balance, I think I do more good for the world stopping monstrous incursions from outside reality than sitting in a jail cell at Her Majesty's pleasure."</p><p>Which … was a hard thing to argue against, sure, given that Martin was still wrapping his head around the <em>existence </em>of said monstrous incursions. Given that, an hour ago, he'd been <em>defending </em>her to Sasha, who, oh yes, had been <em>right all along. </em>And also the Institute was apparently … <em>haunted? </em>Martin rubbed his eyes, as if that was going to help make room in his head for all this new information. It mostly just made his eyes hurt.</p><p>"I should go," he said. "I should — I'm going."</p><p>He stood up, and waited for any of them to — what, try to stop him? Tie him up in the back office? Nobody moved, except Jon tossing his peas into the sink. Gerry was still dripping on the linoleum. Gertrude didn't even flinch. "Do whatever you feel is best," she said serenely, which — Christ, Martin didn't even know what to think of that. Of anything.</p><p>When he turned towards the stairs, however, he heard footsteps behind him. Jon, following at a careful distance. Martin ignored him until they were out onto the street, and Jon called his name. "What?"</p><p>Jon shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should've told you sooner."</p><p>"Told me what sooner?" Martin asked. "That we were hunting ghosts? That Gertrude k—?" His hands were sparking with pins and needles; he realized he was hyperventilating. "Is George Icarus even a thing, or did you lie about that, too?"</p><p>Jon winced. It probably hurt. Good. "Gertrude — she helps people, Martin. She gets rid of those things. That's what I joined the Institute to do, and she <em>actually does it." </em></p><p>"So it doesn't matter to you?"</p><p>"Of course it fucking matters!" He raked a hand through his damp hair; the silver roots were showing again. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft. "Gertrude promised me something, and in exchange I agreed to cover for her. I don't … maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I can't walk away yet."</p><p>"What on Earth could she have promised you that's worth — that?"</p><p>Jon looked deep into Martin's eyes. He didn't have Gertrude's intensity, just a pleading vulnerability. "I survived the fire, Martin. I was <em>inside </em>the building and I was in a coma for days afterwards, but — I survived. And as soon as I was well enough, I tracked down Gertrude to find out why."</p><p>Martin blinked. That was — the police had said that was impossible, that everyone inside had been smothered by gas almost instantly. Then again, the police also thought Gertrude was dead. "What did she say?" he asked.</p><p>"She said I was probably marked by — by one of those things. The entities." Jon looked away. "But she also didn't tell me that all the other survivors had gotten sick. And there are other things, like Icarus … I'm not saying I trust her, Martin, but she's the only source of information I have. And she <em>helps </em>people."</p><p>Right. Because this all came back to Gertrude, didn't it. "So you don't want me to call the police on her," he said, bitterness rising like bile in his throat.</p><p>Jon spread his hands helplessly. "Do it, if you think you should," he said, and was he echoing her words on purpose? "Just. I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you from the start. I don't know how to make that right."</p><p>Martin swallowed. "I don't either."</p><p>They stood there, staring at one another for a few minutes, but Jon was still soaking wet, not even wearing a proper coat. He eventually shoved his hands in his pockets again. "If you have more questions—" he said tentatively.</p><p>"I'll call you," Martin said. It didn't feel so much like an assurance as a warning. <em>So don't call me. </em></p><p>"Right." Jon slank back into the shop, eyes downcast. Martin sighed, and started trudging back to the Tube station.</p><p>
  <br/>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. A Monster of a Stomach Bug</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha worries about Martin. Tim agrees to help her check in on him.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Worms</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was half-ten on a Monday, and Martin wasn't there.</p><p>Sasha absently drummed a pen against the side of her coffee cup. The coffee was her usual, from the shop up the road from the Institute. Her commute had been the usual chain of bus and Tube and walking; the sun had been out, though it was overcast now. Tim was at his desk, schmoozing into the phone at someone over some documents he probably wasn't actually supposed to be able to access.</p><p>Martin's desk was empty, though. That wasn't right.</p><p>She picked up her phone with her free hand but didn't unlock it. The last time she'd talked one on one with Martin had been … tense. The last few times, really. She'd known Martin was a champion grudge-holder, but for the past couple of weeks he'd barely spoken to her <em>or </em>Tim, and avoided their office entirely when he could help it. She'd assumed he'd had enough of her attempts to suss out the secrets of Pinhole Books. She'd assumed he'd had enough of <em>her, </em>honestly, and tried to reign in her suspicions, even if it seemed too late to mend those particular fences. It wasn't even like she had anything against Martin specifically, she just — it was so <em>obvious </em>that something was suspicious about that whole bookshop situation, and she didn't understand how he couldn't <em>see </em>that.</p><p>And now he wasn't here.</p><p>Instead of her mobile, she picked up her desk phone. The Institute didn't really have a functioning HR department at the moment, just Amy and sometimes a temp, but they did have Rosie, who was an incurable gossip. <em>"Magnus Institute for Paranormal Research, how may I--"</em></p><p>"It's me, Rosie," Sasha said. "Did you happen to hear if Martin Blackwood called off today?"</p><p>
  <em>"Oh! You know, I don't think I did, but now that you mention it I haven't seen him yet. Is he not at his desk?"</em>
</p><p>"No, not yet. I haven't seen him all morning."</p><p>
  <em>"Well, that's not like him…"</em>
</p><p>By the time she rang off, Tim had finished his call and half-turned in his chair to face her. "Something up?"</p><p>Sasha bit her lip, considering for a moment, because she knew that she could be a bit irrational about these things — she hadn't needed Tim or Martin or anyone else to tell her that the high, thready alarm bells that rang in her brain when she didn't know someone's whereabouts were not <em>okay. </em>But she was pretty sure this was more than that. She was pretty sure something was wrong. "Have you heard from Martin recently?" she asked.</p><p>Tim glanced at the empty desk. "Not since Friday, no," he said, in a carefully measured voice. "I take it he didn't call in?"</p><p>Sasha shook her head. And then steeled her nerves for the next request. "Would you try texting him, please?"</p><p>Tim raised an eyebrow. "C'mon, Sash, he's not that angry with you."</p><p>"He called me a paranoid maniac," Sasha reminded him.</p><p>"That doesn't mean—" Tim was obviously searching for words, and when they didn't come, his shoulders sagged. "All right. Fine. I'm not passing notes between you two like a middle school crush or something, though. This is a one-time thing."</p><p>She tried not to watch as he scrolled through his contacts and typed in the message. (Tim texted with his thumbs, and he could be <em>unbearably </em>slow.) She tried to busy herself with organizing her notes on Paul and Marcus McKenzie, despite the scant scraps of information left behind when their statement (two statements? It wasn't clear) burned. She tried not to hang on the silence in the room, the unbearable stillness, the strange feeling that someone, somewhere, was <em>watching </em>her—</p><p>Tim's text alert went off, and she jumped, badly. Either he didn't notice or he was pretending not to for her sake. "Message from Martin," he announced, swiping his thumb across the screen. "Says he's got, quote, a '<em>monster</em> of a stomach bug,' unquote. Might be staying home for a couple days."</p><p>Sasha frowned. That sounded perfectly reasonable, and yet something about it felt wrong, <em>off </em>in a way she couldn't put her finger on. "Well, if he's sick, he should remember to call in," she said, trying to make sense of her own unease.</p><p>"Yeah, because when <em>I'm </em>puking my guts out, that's the main thing I'm worried about," Tim said with a little eye roll. "I'm wishing him well from the both of us."</p><p>She recognized the air of finality in his voice, and knew there would be no more debating it with him. "Thanks."</p><p>"You're very welcome."</p><p>It did nothing to dispel the nagging feeling of wrongness, though, and try as she might to concentrate on her work she kept circling back around to it. Martin hadn't seemed ill when he left for the day on Friday — he'd left early, said something about checking up on a new statement. Sasha had assumed that meant another scrap of something recovered from the burned archives, like the rest of the files they'd spent months trying to reconstitute. But while Tim was getting lunch, she slipped over to Martin's desk and found a complete statement — cover sheet and all — dated 9th April 2015. Less than a month after the fire. Who would even have been around to take it?</p><p>Martin's notes indicated the statement giver — <em>Vittery, Carlos — </em>was dead. The address was located in Archway, but trolling through news sites didn't bring up any reports of unusual crimes in the area, or even much in the way of usual crimes. Then again, magically producing police reports was usually Tim's job, given how many different Met employees he was or had previously dated. If something had happened to Martin while he was there—</p><p>Well, if it was work-related, why would he choose to lie about it? Trading ridiculous statement stories was one of the few social bonding activities they all had in common. So either Martin was telling the truth about being ill (but that felt wrong, a nagging feeling, like having a bit of popcorn stuck between her teeth) or he was calling in sick to cover something that wasn't related to the Institute.</p><p>There weren't any odd-sounding news stories out of Morden, either. No reported crimes she could track down near the location of Pinhole Books.</p><p>By mid-afternoon, she'd run out of ideas, and speculating was only winding her anxiety tighter. Texting Martin directly was a last resort, and a long shot, given how icy he'd been towards her lately, but it wasn't as if she could just show up at his house to check on him. (Actually — no, no, that would definitely be weird. No.)</p><p><em>Tim said you were sick, </em>she texted, figuring it would be best to go at this indirectly. <em>Feeling any better? </em></p><p>Time passed treacle-slow as she waited for his reply, conjuring up entire dialogues in her head, reasoning out every possible contingency. It took about fifteen minutes.</p><p>
  <em>not really but thank u for asking</em>
</p><p>Sasha frowned. The feeling of wrongness intensified. <em>Anything I can do? </em>she typed, slowly. <em>Need some ginger ale or something?</em></p><p>The reply came quicker this time: <em>no thank u i think i just need to rest</em></p><p>This wasn't right at all, but she couldn't put her finger on the problem. <em>Let me know if I can help, </em>she finally said. <em>I mean it. </em></p><p>
  <em>i will thank u sasha ur a good friend</em>
</p><p>What the hell?</p><p>She stared at that message for several minutes, an idea taking shape in her head. It was a terrible idea, a crazy idea, but it made sense — it accounted for all the data — that sense of wrongness finally resolved into a horrible, stomach-wrenching certainty, terrifying and yet strangely satisfying at the same time.</p><p>"You okay, Sash?" Tim asked, and she started again. She hadn't even heard him come in, but he was staring at her with a little frown. "You looked properly spooked there for a second."</p><p>She'd hoped to put together a clear, well-reasoned argument in support of her case. Instead, she blurted out, "I think Martin's been kidnapped."</p><p>Tim's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He set his coffee down, carefully, and then snagged his desk chair and pulled it over so he could sit closer to her. "Okay," he said, in that infuriating tone that meant he was humoring her. "Where did this come from?"</p><p>"The text he sent you this morning — did it have capital letters? Punctuation?" She didn't wait for him to fish his own phone out of his pocket, instead showing him hers. "Because — look, scroll up. That's not how he texts, it's just <em>not. </em>And do you really think he'd be calling me a good friend right now?"</p><p>Tim didn't immediately shoot her down, which she'd more than half-feared he would. He even said, "Okay, yeah, that is out of character for him. He might also just be feeling really sick."</p><p>"And the good friend bit?"</p><p>"You seriously think him forgiving you is grounds to call him a pod person?"</p><p>"I didn't say <em>pod person," </em>she snapped, snatching her phone back. "I think someone else wrote those texts, which means someone else has his phone and is making excuses so we don't go looking for him."</p><p>Tim folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair. "That's a pretty big leap, Sasha."</p><p>"I know that," she said, "which is why I haven't already called the police or something." She threw herself back in her chair and folded her arms across her front. "I'm not stupid, Tim. I know this is really thin evidence, but it <em>makes sense </em>and I'd rather he think I'm crazy than be hurt."</p><p>Tim sighed a long sigh, and rubbed his face with one hand. "I don't think you're crazy, Sasha," he said earnestly. "I do think you're overreacting, but I know that it's coming from good intentions. I just don't know if Martin or the police are gonna care about your intentions if you try to report a kidnapping."</p><p>"Of course I'm not going to call the police," Sasha said. There wasn't enough evidence, even to ask for a wellness check. "I'm going to his flat."</p><p>"How do you know where his flat is?" Tim asked.</p><p>Sasha rolled her eyes as she stood up. "The digital security around this place is <em>shockingly</em> bad."</p><p>She reached for her coat, her mind set on leaving immediately; Tim leapt to his feet quickly and reached out, almost like he was going to grab her wrist, before he redirected and grabbed the coat rack instead. "Now? You're just going to walk out of here right now?"</p><p>"No time like the present," she said, but couldn't keep the brittle irritation out of her voice. Martin could be in <em>danger. </em></p><p>"Except we're still on the clock, and again, if this doesn't turn out to be a thing, we're gonna get in trouble with the boss," Tim said. "We can wait a couple of hours, until it's less obvious we're skipping out early, okay?"</p><p>Sasha should've argued the point — would've argued, probably, if Tim hadn't said <em>we. </em>If this had been just her risk to take. "You really believe me," she said warily, half-question and half-reminder.</p><p>Tim sighed. "Yeah, I guess I do. If you think something's fishy, then I think we should check it out. Just … keep the risk-reward ratio in mind, okay?"</p><p>"Okay." She sat back down, and Tim let go of her coat. "That gives us time to plan, anyway. "</p>
<hr/><p>Five-thirty exactly saw them standing outside Martin's building in Stockwell. It was a block of flats from the Seventies or Eighties with delusions of Brutalism, sticking up rigid and ugly from the surrounding architecture like a knife in a flowerbed. "Bet you ten quid the lift's out of service," Tim muttered darkly; Martin's flat was on the third floor.</p><p>"I thought you were a big brave outdoorsman," Sasha replied, though she didn't sound committed to the bit. The sun was just setting, and the clouds had parted enough to paint the upper floors of the building in a smear of orange-pink. They were already standing in shadow at street level, though. "Remember, ask him about—"</p><p>"—about the squash, yes, I remember." They'd rehearsed the plan all the way here, based on three scenarios: one, Martin didn't answer the door at all, in which case they had grounds to call the police. Two, Martin answered but didn't open the door, in which case Tim was to offer him a bottle of grapefruit squash. Since Martin had voiced a firm objection to grapefruits as a concept on more than one occasion, he'd hopefully recognize the opportunity to send a hint to Tim if anything was amiss.</p><p>The third option, of course, was that Martin answered the door, and he really was just sick as a dog, in which case Tim would apologize for bothering him and then he and Sasha could just get dinner and relax. (Assuming Martin was <em>Martin, </em>some traitorous voice in the back of Tim's head suggested, and not something else wearing his face — but that was some Sasha-grade paranoia there, and Tim pushed the thought away.)</p><p>He'd persuaded Sasha herself to wait outside, as "backup," though that was more to prevent any unnecessary friction between her and Martin than an actual concern. The last thing they needed right now was another round of Martin's immovable object versus Sasha's unstoppable force, especially in the most likely case that Martin was just sick and Sasha had wound herself up for nothing. "Wish me luck!" he said, throwing Sasha a smile as he walked up to the entrance.</p><p>"Be careful," is what she actually said, arms folded tight around her middle.</p><p>There were buzzers to be let up, but half of them weren't even labeled, and the flat that was meant to be Martin's was labeled <em>Nayyar </em>instead. Tim tried a few at random until he connected with someone he could talk into letting him in. The lobby featured scuffed laminate masquerading as wood and tile in a vaguely grimey shade of yellow; there was faint moldy, earthy smell he couldn't quite place. He was right about the lift being out; as he trudged up towards the third floor, he texted Sasha: <em>You owe me ten quid.</em></p><p><em>I never took that bet, </em>she replied almost instantly.</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes to himself. <em>The things I do for love! 💔</em></p><p>He paused on the third-floor landing to catch his breath, though the moldy smell was even worse in the confined space. That same yellowish tile lined the stairwell, and through the tiny window in the doorway he could see the erratic flickering of a broken fluorescent light. He reached out for the door handle, but froze when he realized there was some kind of tacky black-brown muck on it. Christ, the things people would put up with just to live in Zone 2. He managed to turn it with just one finger, and pulled it open far enough to get his other hand around the edge and open it properly.</p><p>The sick yellow tile extended into the corridor. The slime did as well, in tracks that sort of resembled footprints. The light nearest the stairwell was the one flickering; the next few fixtures were burned out completely, leaving a long stretch of the corridor in near-darkness. Someone was standing in the midst of that darkness; Tim could make out a slender silhouette, but the details were only visible between flickers. They were knocking on a door; they were wearing red, a coat or dress that was torn and ragged and stained with black, and similarly ragged socks or stockings or … something.</p><p>Tim took a careful, cautious step forward; something squelched and popped under his shoe. He looked down, and saw a silvery shape on the carpet, some kind of grub or worm or maggot that he'd just squashed the front half of.</p><p>When he looked up, the figure in the corridor had stopped knocking. They — she? — they were looking right at him.</p><p>He realized, in a horrible moment of clarity, what was really hanging from her limbs in writhing strings.</p><p>He backpedaled into the stairwell; the door slammed shut, louder than should ever have been possible. Pressing one hand to his mouth to keep from retching, he groped for his phone again. <em>There's something in here.</em></p><p><em>What do you mean? </em>Sasha sent back, still right away. Thank God for Sasha right now.</p><p><em>Some kind of zombie thing covered in maggots. Or worms. </em>Now that he looked for it, he could see the same slimy footsteps on the stairs, as well. <em>It's right outside Martin's door. I think it saw me.</em></p><p>His heart beat in his ears while she left him on read. Then: <em>Tim tell me exactly what it looks like. This is important.</em></p><p>
  <em>Lights are out, can't see shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is it a woman?</em>
</p><p><em>IT IS A DUCKING ZOMBIE. </em>For once he didn't even care about autocorrect.</p><p>Sasha, of course, typed outrageously fast. <em>The institute had a long term project related to a woman anmed Jane Prentiss. Long black hair, red dress, infested w/ an unknown parasite in 2014. Is it her?</em></p><p>Steeling himself, Tim leaned over and peeked around the edge of the window.</p><p>A gray, rotted face looked back at him, silver worms blossoming from its pitted flesh.</p><p>He fled.</p><p>Down the stairs, two at a time, and if he'd slipped at any moment he'd have broken both ankles. Out the grimy lobby and into the cold, the grayscale of London in the early evening, sun now long gone. Sasha looked up as he ran to her, one hand with a white-knuckle grip on her phone. "Was it her?"</p><p>"We need to get out of here."</p><p>"Tim, was it—"</p><p>"I don't know, I don't care, we need to move—"</p><p>"Let go of me—!"</p><p>He towed her across the road, at least, and around a corner. If that thing had followed him, he couldn't see any sign of it. "Tim," Sasha said, in a slightly softer voice, "you can let go of me."</p><p>Easily said than done. He forced his hands to unclench from the folds of her coat; forced himself to take deep breaths of cold, clean air (well, for London standards of clean). He couldn't force himself to stop shaking. "That was a fucking nightmare," he finally said.</p><p>"Was it Prentiss?" Sasha asked.</p><p>"How the <em>fuck </em>should I know?" Tim snapped. The worms, the darkness, that smell —</p><p>Sasha took a step back from him, and her jaw was set in that particular way that boded trouble. "I'm going back there."</p><p><em>"No." </em>He grabbed for her coat again, her arm, something, but she danced back and out of the way. "Sasha, no, that's stupid."</p><p>"Martin is still in there—"</p><p>"If you go in there, that thing's going to kill you," Tim said flatly. <em>Like Danny, </em>he almost added.</p><p>"So what do we do, Tim?" she said. "Run away? Call the police, as if they're going to be any help?"</p><p>"The, the ECDC," he suggested, racking his brain for options. "They're the ones who were looking for it in the first place, right?"</p><p>"You can't just <em>call </em>the ECDC!" Sasha shouted. "They're not an ambulance service!"</p><p>"Well, we have to call <em>someone," </em>Tim insisted. "This is <em>not </em>something we can handle, Sasha."</p><p>"There isn't anyone else to call!" she insisted.</p><p>Of course there wasn't. Of course there was nothing they could do. They'd clearly lost Martin, like he'd already lost Danny, and most of the Institute, and—</p><p>"Gertrude," Tim blurted, as a desperate little lightbulb popped off in his head.</p><p>Sasha blinked, and cocked her head a bit. "Do you really think—?"</p><p>"She probably got briefed on the Prentiss stuff when she was at the institute. And if she's the crazy badass you say she is..."</p><p>"You might have a point," Sasha said. "But can we trust her?"</p><p>Tim laughed. "I don't know what other choice we have!"</p><p>She nodded, slowly, and pulled her phone out again. "I don't think the bookshop's open, but Martin said they live above it, right? So they'll probably hear it and pick up?"</p><p>"Better hope so," Tim said. <em>For Martin's sake, at least. </em></p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Tall, Dark and Wormy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin makes a move. Jon and Gerry explain the facts of life over diner coffee. Tim and Sasha disagree.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Worms</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin wasn't sure how long he'd been trapped in his flat, exactly; he'd covered the windows on the first day, or maybe the second, after waking from a nightmare about worms scaling the outside of the building. The last ready-meal he'd pulled from the freezer had only been half-thawed, so it couldn't have been that long. Certainly couldn't have been as long as it felt. Lack of sleep was probably screwing with his perception of time.</p><p>Had he been gone long enough for anyone to notice? Had any of his neighbors complained?</p><p>...did he still have any neighbors?</p><p>Martin pushed the thought out of his head, and looked back at his notebook; he adjusted the torch currently pinned between his neck and shoulder. He knew he should be conserving the batteries, but he also needed a distraction (from the knocking, from the long silences when he was waiting for her to knock) and the dim sunlight that had been filtering in through the cracks had faded long ago. He adjusted the torch <em>again, </em>and then put his pencil to the page. <em>The streets are cold in London—</em></p><p>Somebody knocked.</p><p>His heart was in his throat before he even registered that this was a <em>different </em>knock. The … woman, worm, thing, she knocked like a regular person knocked, light and quick. Almost polite. This was loud, heavy pounding that would've rattled the frame if Martin hadn't stuffed so many towels and socks and t-shirts into every possible crack.</p><p>And then, for the first time in days, he heard someone shout through the wood. He heard Jon's voice, muffled but clear, and sheer relief blotted out every other recent emotion. "Martin? Martin!"</p><p>Martin stumbled to his feet and ran to the door. "Jon? I'm here, I'm okay. Is - is she gone?"</p><p>"For the moment," Jon said, and that alone made Martin sag against the door in exhaustion. "Are you hurt? Did any of the worms—?"</p><p>"No," Martin said, before Jon could finish that sentence. "No, I've kept everything blocked, and they haven't tried to come through the pipes or anything."</p><p>"Good. Have you got anything to cover your face with?"</p><p>"What, like a mask?"</p><p>A second voice cut in over Jon's — Gerry. "A scarf, a bandana, anything to protect your mouth and nose. It's a bit thick out here."</p><p>Martin didn't ask for clarification; he groped around the base of the door in the darkness, until he found a t-shirt he could tie around his lower face. "I found something," he called as he fumbled to knot the sleeves behind his head.</p><p>"Cool," Gerry said. "Let's get the hell out of here."</p><p>There was a slight hang-up when Martin, after unlocking the door, realized he'd packed the crevices so tightly that he couldn't actually open it. When he'd pulled free enough of the wadded-up clothes to get it open, he was immediately hit in the face with a fine mist of something that made his eyes water and coated his mouth with an acrid film. Jon and Gerry were on the other side of the door, though if he hadn't heard their voices Martin wouldn't have recognized them: they were wearing dust masks and goggles and beanies pulled low, all but covering every inch of skin.</p><p>"Come on," Jon said, reaching out to Martin. His hand was clad in a yellow dish glove, sealed with duct tape where it met the sleeve of his coat. "The spray isn't going to stay at concentration forever."</p><p>Martin squeezed through the gap he'd managed to open and pulled the door to behind him. Jon and Gerry immediately bustled him toward the stairs, without even giving him time to lock up after himself. The spray or mist or whatever didn't hide the suspicious, discolored footprints on the floor, but Martin's eyes were soon watering too much to notice much else. If there were any worms around, alive or dead — hell, he probably wouldn't have been able to see the woman herself coming down the hall at them until she was close enough to — to —</p><p>"Easy," Jon said, as Gerry pulled the door open. "Nearly there."</p><p>The air in the stairwell was cleaner, and by the time they'd gotten out of the building, Martin could see properly again. It was freezing outside, but he still made Jon and Gerry stop for a moment so he could brace himself against a post box and take a few deep breaths. Jon took the opportunity to push his goggles up and his dust mask down; the bruise from the diving-suit ghost was almost healed. "C'mon," he said after Martin had wiped his face a bit. "Your friends are waiting for us."</p><p>It was a testament to Martin's state of mind that he actually asked, "What friends?"</p><p>"Er, Sasha James? From the Institute?" Jon prompted. "And Tim Stoker? They're the ones that called us?"</p><p>Right. Of course. Jon wouldn't have realized anything was wrong on his own, not after — but Sasha noticed everything, and she wouldn't have let Martin's absence from work go without follow up. "Are they okay?" he asked. "They didn't — the worms didn't — "</p><p>"No, no," Jon assured him. "Just a bit shaken up about Prentiss."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>Gerry sighed. He hadn't removed his goggles, nor the bandana holding his dust mask in place, which gave him a weirdly post-apocalyptic vibe. "Let's do all this as a group, okay?"</p><p>It turned out Tim and Sasha were waiting in a little cafe a street over — Martin hadn't even been aware of it before, just a couple of tables squeezed in between two taller buildings, but in the darkness its <em>24-hour service </em>sign shone like a beacon. Tim immediately offered Martin his coat, and Sasha stepped forward almost like she was going to hug him before remembering — well. "Thank god you're all right," she said, with feeling.</p><p>"Thank you for noticing me," Martin said, though it felt like a rather pathetic thing to be grateful for. Tim squeezed his shoulder.</p><p>Jon pulled another chair over so they all could sit at the same table; a waitress looked side-eye at the five of them (Tim and Sasha still in business casual, Jon and Gerry looking like the sons of Mad Max and the Ghostbusters) until Gerry ordered coffees all around and a plate of chips to share. "So," he said, goggles perched on his forehead. "Let's do story time. Martin first."</p><p>"I — where should I start?" he asked.</p><p>Sasha leaned in. "You were investigating a statement? I saw the file on your desk — Carlos Vittery?"</p><p>"Right, right." Martin scrubbed his face again with a napkin and tried to compose himself. "The director assigned me a new statement to investigate — a properly new one, not one from the Archives. Said it had gotten lost in the shuffle 'cause it was given so close to the fire. The statement was about some kind of … ghost-spider? If that's a thing? So I went to the victim's building in Archway to ask some questions…"</p><p>He explained about sneaking in through the basement window — Jon made some vaguely disapproving noises, which, <em>ha</em> — and finding the woman down there, the one full of worms. "I had my phone out, to take pictures of the cobwebs," he explained, "and when one of the worm-things reached at me and leapt at my face … That thing jumped literally 6 feet through the air at my face. It missed me, but I was so taken aback that I fell—"</p><p>"--and dropped your phone," Sasha said. She was leaning forward over the table, listening raptly. "That's how she sent those texts."</p><p>"What texts?" Martin asked.</p><p>Gerry made a speed up gesture with one hand. "I'm guessing you got out of the basement without being infested, but Tall, Dark and Wormy followed you home and had you trapped there. That about the shape of it?"</p><p>Martin nodded. "She kept knocking … and the power was out, for some reason, so I couldn't use my computer. I don't know if she cut the line or something…"</p><p>"Probably didn't need to," Jon muttered. Martin made a quizzical noise. "Things — monsters — of that sort can sort of … bend the rules a bit. And by 'rules' I mean the laws of physics."</p><p>Martin and Sasha both said "What?" at about the same time; Tim choked a bit on his coffee.</p><p>Gerry formed his hands into a T. "Telling this in order. Martin, you were trapped. Cut to interior, Magnus Institute, day?"</p><p>Sasha explained how she'd realized that Martin wasn't the one answering their texts — Martin felt a deep unease at the thought that the worm woman was still somehow cognizant enough to use a mobile phone. Tim explained, briskly, that he'd seen her in Martin's building and noped right back out. "Neither of us had any idea about how to deal with that, so we called your friends here from Pinhole Books, who apparently do a sideline hunting monsters?" Sasha finished, looking to Jon and Gerry quizzically.</p><p>"You could put it like that," was all Gerry said. He had, by this point, finished his coffee and was drinking Jon's. "Gertrude had a bunch of pesticide put away, probably in case of Prentiss. So Jon and I suited up and gave your building some free fumigation, which kept her at a distance long enough to get you out."</p><p>"Who is Prentiss?" Martin demanded.</p><p>Jon and Sasha started talking at almost the same time, then looked at one another awkwardly; Jon made a little go-ahead gesture, and Sasha continued. "Jane Prentiss was infected with an unknown parasite almost exactly two years ago," she explained. "She escaped from the hospital and has been officially missing ever since. The police and the ECDC consulted with the Institute about her case, for some reason, and we were supposed to be keeping an eye out for any statements that seemed to be related to her … at least until the fire cocked everything up."</p><p>Martin shook his head. "No. No, there's no way — that thing — she couldn't have lived two years like that!"</p><p>"Like I said," Jon said gravely, "they break the rules. As long as she's been, ah, 'feeding' in other ways, I imagine she can sustain herself indefinitely."</p><p>Feeding. Right. On fear. On Martin. He swallowed, and passed what was left of his coffee to Gerry without being asked.</p><p>Sasha and Tim, however, hadn't had this talk, and Sasha immediately asked, "What do you mean, feeding? Is that why they brought her case to the Institute?"</p><p>Gerry sighed, and looked at Jon. "Do we really want to do this right now?"</p><p>"I suppose we owe it to them," Jon said, though he sounded resigned. He picked up his coffee cup and looked vaguely surprised that it was empty.</p><p>So while Martin picked at the plate of chips — he wasn't particularly hungry, but it was the first hot meal he'd had in days — Sasha and Tim got an abbreviated version of the Fear-Eating Monster Gods lecture. They took it … well, better than Martin had, all things considered. Sasha was positively engrossed. "That makes so much <em>sense," </em>she gasped, near the end.</p><p>Tim, who looked a little ill, stared at her. "Which part?"</p><p>She flapped a dismissive hand in his direction. "And Gertrude obviously knew all that when she was still at the Institute, that's why she was so … like that. But," and her brows knit, "why did she leave after the fire—?"</p><p>Jon suddenly reached out and shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. Gerry, still drinking Martin's coffee, shrugged smoothly. "You'll have to ask her that. We're just the minions."</p><p>Martin frowned, and tried to catch Jon's eye — Jon just shook his head slightly and kept chewing.</p><p>Sasha bit her lip a moment. She had that look in her eye, the look that meant she was about to start asking more questions, like a hound that had just got the scent of something. But Tim, thankfully, caught her shoulder and squeezed it a bit. "Not that I'm planning to sleep again after this, but it's past midnight and the Tube's going to stop pretty soon." He turned to Martin. "I know it's not much, but I've got a couch you can sleep on for a couple of days."</p><p>It was a completely unexpected gesture — not that Martin thought Tim didn't like him, but there was being work friends with someone and offering them free use of your couch. Martin was touched, but also taken entirely by surprise, and so he stammered uselessly before Gerry coughed to get everyone's attention. "It's probably best if he comes stay at the shop for a little while, actually."</p><p>"Why's that?" Sasha demanded, before anyone else could.</p><p>"Mostly 'cause Prentiss isn't dead yet," Gerry said bluntly. "And I've seen a few too many monsters decide to come back for an unfinished meal."</p><p>"She … she might come back?" Martin asked, fear curdling in his stomach again.</p><p>"It's a remote possibility," Jon said quickly. "But better safe than sorry."</p><p>He probably thought his smile looked reassuring. It did not.</p>
<hr/><p>They split up at the Tube station, taking different lines in opposite directions. Martin insisted on returning Tim's coat, no matter how many times Tim insisted. "It's not like — we can go back and get my things later, right?" Martin looked warily at Keay. "Right?"</p><p>"Sure," Gerard said, but he wasn't looking at them, he was trying to peel duct tape off his coat with his teeth. Jon swatted his hand until he stopped, then tried to peel the tape off for him, despite his own gloves making it impossible to get a grip on the stuff.</p><p>Tim had been relieved when the two of them turned up, because despite the slapdash safety gear, they'd seemed confident and competent. Now he really wasn't sure these were the guys he wanted standing between him (or anyone else) and the eldritch horrors they'd so casually described.</p><p>Sasha led Tim towards the northbound platform, and almost as soon as they were out of earshot of the others, she leaned into his shoulder and hissed, "They're lying about something."</p><p>Tim blinked at her. "Sorry, what?"</p><p>"You saw them all clam up when I asked about Gertrude!" She tossed her head back in the direction of the ticket hall. "They still haven't explained why she left after the fire, or why she's letting people think she's dead—"</p><p>"Seriously?" Tim asked. He didn't bother trying to keep his voice down. "That's what you're on about? Not the fucking … monsters and … " Words failed him; he resorted to an expansive gesture that he hoped encompassed <em>all of this shit. </em></p><p>"I — I mean," Sasha faltered. "We knew, though. I always knew <em>some </em>of it had to be real, just based on what's in Artefact Storage. And — your brother."</p><p>Right. Something had taken Danny, something had let him walk out of that theatre alive. Something that wanted his fear. "Some of it, yeah," he admitted. "But that's not the same as having your ex-coworker and a friendly neighborhood mall goth lay it out like Spooky Wikipedia."</p><p>They reached the platform level just in time to catch a train, along with a smattering of late-shift workers and the few dedicated partiers who'd be out on a Monday night. There wasn't enough room in the carriage for them both to sit, so Tim graciously let Sasha have a seat while he hung off the rail in front of her. "It fits with what I've observed," she said, once they were settled. "Not that I don't have loads of questions, still, but the bones of the theory explain a lot."</p><p>"That's not the problem, Sash," he pointed out, not sure how she could be missing the point so dramatically. "We just found out that God is real and he fucking hates us, how are you not more upset about that?"</p><p>"I think that's a bit of an overstatement," Sasha said with a little frown. The woman sitting next to her gave Tim a dirty look and shifted over minutely in her seat.</p><p>"Not by a lot!" Tim protested. "Not in any way that matters. It's not just one spooky book, or one architect, o-or bloody circus clown, it's … everything, it's <em>anything. </em>What are we supposed to do about that?"</p><p>"I intend to keep doing exactly what I've been doing," Sasha said, a bit hotly. "Which is figuring out how all this fits into the Institute. Or how the Institute fits into this, I suppose."</p><p>He could only stare at her for a moment. "You're serious. You don't think this changes anything."</p><p>"I think it changes everything," she corrected. "The stakes are so much higher, the scope of it all is … massive. But I'm not going to let that intimidate me."</p><p>"Intimidate — ?" Tim fought down an inappropriate laugh. "Sasha, if you're not scared shitless, I don't think you were paying attention."</p><p>"Of course I'm scared," she shot back. "But I'm not going to get any <em>less </em>scared if I hide from it."</p><p>It was like she was speaking a foriegn language: Tim knew all the words but they didn't make sense in the way they'd been strung together. "You're going to get yourself killed," he blurted. "You're going to go poking after another monster and you're going to get killed."</p><p>The train stopped at Vauxhall, and the woman next to Sasha lal but leapt for the doors. Tim didn't take over the empty seat. "I'm not an idiot, Tim," she said. "I know it's dangerous, and I'm not just going to blunder off into the night all unprepared. But I thought you of all people would understand that some things are worth the risk."</p><p>"The hell is that supposed to mean?"</p><p>"You always said this was about your brother—"</p><p>"Leave him the <em>fuck </em>out of this." Tim was shaking; when had he started shaking?</p><p>Sasha, at least, backed down from that. "Fine. What about the rest of the Institute? A hundred and seven people died, and I'm more convinced than ever that it was <em>not </em>just a malfunction in the gas system. How much would you risk, to get justice for them? Or revenge?"</p><p>"Is that what you're calling it now?" Tim asked. "Because last time we talked about this you were all about the truth for truth's own sake. Is <em>that </em>worth getting killed over?"</p><p>"Maybe it is," she said. "Maybe it's the only thing that is."</p><p>The train began to slow as it approached the next station. It wasn't Tim's stop, but he suddenly needed some fresh air. "Great," he said. "But do me a favor and leave me out of it, okay?"</p><p>Sasha's eyes went wide. "Don't you want to know—"</p><p>"No." Tim stepped away from the rail and made his way towards the doors of the carriage. Sasha stood as well, and tried to follow. "I mean it. If you're really so eager to get killed, you're doing it without me."</p><p>"We're not going to get anywhere if we don't face facts, Tim!" she blurted, grabbing him by the sleeve.</p><p>Tim shrugged her off. "That's the plan, yeah." When the doors opened, he shouldered his way onto the platform, and left her on the train. It was too bad any pubs he could get to were probably almost to last call; he could <em>seriously </em>use a drink.</p>
<hr/><p>Embarrassingly, Martin dozed off on the train — he remembered Gerry saying something about reporting back to Gertrude, and the next thing he knew Jon was gently shaking his shoulder, telling him they were almost to Morden. He hoped he hadn't done anything too humiliating, like snoring. The redness of Jon's face said he probably had.</p><p>Luckily the shop was only a few streets away from the station. Gertrude, surprisingly, was waiting for them at the front door: she looked them up and down like a general inspecting the returning troops. "No complications, I take it?"</p><p>"Nah, we gassed her out for now," Gerry said. "We'll have to go back and check out the damage in the daylight."</p><p>Gertrude nodded smartly, and led them up the stairs to the shop.</p><p>Martin had gotten a bit of a sense of the building's layout on his previous visits, but even if he hadn't, he wasn't in a frame of mind to do more than obediently follow where Jon and Gerry lead him. They went past the main level of the shop, up to the top floor of the building, which turned out to house a cramped — er, cozy flat. Gerry and Jon disappeared into adjacent doors, and then Gerry stuck his head back out. "Oi. In here. You'll probably want to rinse the bug spray off, and I've got some clothes you can borrow while we wash yours."</p><p>"Right," Martin said blearily. He followed Gerry's directions into an en-suite bathroom; he hadn't dared shower at home with Prentiss lurking outside, and it did feel good to get clean, even if he had do it in a bath that was liberally splattered with black dye stains. There were a lot of worse things the bath could be covered in, after all.</p><p>Gerry left him a pair of stretched-out joggers and a t-shirt so old that the logo was indecipherable; also a toothbrush still in its packaging, which Martin availed himself to. He poked his head through the door he'd entered from, but Gerry's bedroom was dark now, and there was faint snoring coming from one corner. If Martin tried to find his way back to the door he'd probably break an ankle.</p><p>The other door led into an empty bedroom that, by process of elimination, had to be Jon's. It was barely large enough to contain a single bed and a wardrobe; there were books stacked waist-high against the walls, and a piece of plywood balanced unevenly across some boxes seemed to function as a writing desk. Martin tried not to look too closely at anything as he picked his way through the clutter and out the door.</p><p>Jon himself, wearing a singlet and plaid pajama bottoms, was tucking some sheets around the cushions of the shabby little sofa. He glanced up and offered Martin an awkward smile. "It's not the most comfortable place to sleep, but it's either here or Mary's room, and I thought you'd probably had enough stress for one night. She can get somewhat… territorial."</p><p>"Right," Martin said. He didn't know what Jon was talking about, but he was also too tired to ask for clarification just then.</p><p>Jon straightened up, and gave one of the pillows on the couch a little pat. "Right. There you are. I … you just came out of my room, you know where to find me if you need me."</p><p>"Yeah, I'll … do that," Martin said. He sat on the couch, which was lumpy and probably a bit too short for him, but it would work until he'd had enough time to sort out what <em>Mary's room </em>meant. Jon nodded, almost to himself, and started walking back to his room. "Wait," Martin blurted.</p><p>Jon immediately froze and turned around, eyebrows raised.</p><p>It took a minute to find the words, but Martin had had a question in the back of his mind since the cafe, and he might as well ask it now. "Why didn't you tell Tim and Sasha about the Institute? And Gertrude?"</p><p>Jon cocked his head. "Why haven't you?"</p><p>Right. Because if Martin was going to call the police on Getrude or something — or, y'know, warn Tim and Sasha that their workplace was formerly haunted — the time to do it would've been the night he found out about it. Instead he'd kept quiet, as if talking about it would speak it up, make it real. And look how that had turned out.</p><p>And now he was depending on Jon and Gerry and Gertrude to protect him from Prentiss. Which meant it was in his own self-interest to make sure nothing happened to <em>them. </em>Besides, was it bad manners to call the police on your host? Or worse, sic Sasha on her?</p><p>"I don't like lying to people," Martin said, finally, which wasn't an answer. It had never stopped him from doing it before, after all.</p><p>Jon sighed, and just nodded his head. "Me neither. Get some rest."</p><p>Martin switched off the lamp next to the sofa, and fell into an exhausted sleep.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Ms. Social Engineering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mary Keay is a less-than-gracious hostess. Sasha proves her persistence to Gertrude.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin wasn't sure, exactly, what made Pinhole Books any safer than his flat, except perhaps the presence of so many people at all hours. He wondered if monsters suffered from some kind of Heisenberg principle, where being watched by multiple independent observers limited how they were able to warp the world? Or maybe there was something more subtle he wasn't seeing that protected the place. Not that he expected, like, runes carved in the walls or anything like that … unless maybe he should be?</p><p>Regardless. He accepted, for the moment, that the bookshop was safe. So the next thing he had to get used to was sharing a living space with someone other than his mum for the first time in his adult life.</p><p>He slept on the couch, short and shabby though it was. The alternative, as Jon had said, was <em>Mary's Room: </em>small even before it was crammed with bookshelves, decorated solely with an unsettling painting of a human eye, and containing a desk on which a large, ancient-looking book was spread open. It seemed to be written in Hindi? "We could get you an air mattress if we moved the desk a bit," Jon said, apologetically. "But, well, you'd still be sharing with Mary."</p><p>Martin remembered Mary from his first visit to the shop; she wasn't exactly forgettable. But — "Where does she sleep, exactly?"</p><p>"I don't."</p><p>In his defense, Martin had had several very bad days in a row at this point, and not a lot of quality rest. He shrieked. It was not dignified. He also spun around, raising his arms to — do something, he didn't know what, it just felt <em>useful — </em>and found Mary standing in a corner of the room, smirking at him. There was no possible way she should've been able to sneak past them without Martin noticing.</p><p>Jon also jumped a little, which was slightly comforting, but he seemed far less surprised to see Mary lurking behind them. "Was that <em>really </em>necessary?" he snapped.</p><p>"I just wanted to welcome our guest," Mary said, fluttering her eyelashes like an ingenue. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, have we?"</p><p>Jon sighed. "Mary, this is Martin Blackwood," he said, as if explaining something to a small child or hard-of-hearing elder. "He's staying with us so he doesn't get eaten by worms. Martin, this is Mary Keay, Gerry's mother and the former owner of the shop."</p><p>She extended a hand, as if she expected Martin to shake it or kiss it. Martin, however, had been listening to enough of Sasha's ranting to remember <em>exactly </em>what had happened to Mary Keay. Her tattoos, he realized, looked just like the writing in the book. "You're dead," he said, feeling suddenly light-headed.</p><p>"Yes," she said. "Is that going to be a problem?"</p><p>Martin looked at Jon, desperate for some kind of support, but he just made a face. "Please try to restrain yourself, Mary, he's a guest."</p><p>She sniffed, and folded her arms over her chest. "Well, I didn't invite him."</p><p>"If you want to be difficult, I'm sure Gertrude would have no trouble banishing you for the duration of his stay," Jon said ominously.</p><p>Mary just cackled like a cartoon witch. "Oh, yes, Jonathan, run to Aunty Gertie, tell her <em>all </em>about it."</p><p>Jon just rolled his eyes, and towed Martin from the room by the arm. Which was helpful, because Martin wasn't sure he could've left under his own power at that point. With the door shut behind them — not that that sort of thing seemed to matter! — Martin was able to stammer out, "She's — she's dead?"</p><p>"Thoroughly," Jon said with a sigh. "She's bound to that book on the table, though she can move short distances — enough to roam around the shop and cause trouble, mostly."</p><p>Well, wasn't that a delightful thing to discover. "She's not," Martin stammered, "I mean, you wouldn't just have her about if she was actually … <em>dangerous?"</em></p><p>Jon barked a short, sharp laugh, which actually was rather reassuring. "Christ, no. Gertrude's seen to that. She's a horrible, manipulative witch who delights in causing problems, but the range of things she can actually <em>do </em>is quite small. And she does occasionally contribute something useful — something about <em>perceptions not bound by a mortal coil."</em></p><p>He said the last part in a creaky near-falsetto that was clearly imitating Mary's voice, though Martin wasn't sure that was something to joke about. "The things she can actually do being…?" he prompted.</p><p>Jon shrugged. "Insults and snide remarks, mostly. Just don't engage in conversation with her, and she'll be limited to jump scares and sticking her hand down your collar when you're not expecting it."</p><p>"Great," Martin croaked. Jon didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Super."</p><p>So he slept on the couch. It made getting up for work a bit more complicated, since it turned out that booksellers-slash-monster-hunters didn't exactly keep banker's hours. Occasionally one or all of them would still be awake when Martin's alarm went off (half an hour earlier than usual, to factor in the longer commute). More often, they were all deeply asleep, and he had to creep around quietly in order to dress and shower before heading out through the back door towards the Tube station.</p><p>(He really couldn't justify buying breakfast on his way every morning — especially not when the Tube fare was more than a pound extra each way, all the way from Morden to Pimlico — but there was a Polish deli across the road from the shop, and it took a stronger man than Martin Blackwood to just walk past a ready source of pierogi. Self-care, he decided, sometimes meant fried carbohydrates.)</p><p>Tim and Sasha seemed tremendously relieved when he actually showed up for work on Wednesday morning, though they were weirdly distant and overly polite with one another. Martin found it horribly familiar, though it took awhile for him to place exactly why: it was how his parents had treated one another, in his few memories from before his father moved away. He tried to ask Tim what the deal was, but couldn't get more than a grouchy, "She's made her choices."</p><p>He was almost afraid to ask Sasha, in case she'd decided that Tim was secretly a body snatcher or something, so he resolved to keep out of it. And maybe bring a half-dozen pierogi to the office on Friday for lunch.</p><p>Martin didn't usually get back to the shop until past six, even when he left the Institute on time. By then, he could assume everyone else was awake, though there was no predicting whether they'd be around, or in what condition. Gertrude might be reading at the kitchen table, or she might be making terrifying noises in her bedroom; Jon and Gerry might be smoking on the roof, or Gerry might be in the back of the shop doing some kind of business paperwork while Jon monitored a bucket of curing concrete. Sometimes they all might be doing a particularly bloody bit of first aid right in the kitchen where Martin was looking forward to tonight's ready meal, and he was never entirely sure if he actually wanted to know what that was about.</p><p>"You don't," Jon said, pointedly looking away from where Gertrude appeared to be giving Gerry stitches. "<em>I </em>didn't want to know what it was about, but they didn't exactly give me a choice about it."</p><p>"Oh, calm down, you big baby," Gerry said. He seemed remarkably chill about the whole situation, hardly even flinching when the needle went in and out. "Just a bit of a spider situation. Got it all sorted with the appropriate application of a Desolation Leitner."</p><p>"Right," Martin said weakly. "What's a desolation again?"</p><p>"Fire," Jon said darkly. Martin noticed he had his own bandages on one hand, though they didn't look nearly as extensive as what Gerry was getting. "Though it unfortunately turned out to be a one-time use item."</p><p>"That we know of," Gerry added. "Sometimes they regenerate."</p><p>"Well, unless it's planning to regenerate <em>here—" </em>Jon cut himself off, as Gertrude cut her silk and set the forceps aside. "Never mind. The point is, it's all resolved, but I demand restitution for being made to deal with it."</p><p>Gerry fluttered his eyelashes at him. "Aw, I'll make it up to you somehow."</p><p>(For all he was staying with them, Martin still couldn't figure out what Jon and Gerry's whole … <em>thing </em>… actually was. They were just short of inseparable, to the point that a certain number of t-shirts appeared to be in some sort of joint custody arrangement. They were openly affectionate with one another, and Gerry sometimes crossed the line into flirtatious, but Jon never seemed to react. Then again, Jon hadn't seemed aware that he'd asked Martin on a dinner date back in December, had he? Jon seemed tentatively friendly with Martin now, as if he still wasn't sure where they stood — which, to be fair, Martin also didn't know — and Gerry never seemed to react to these overtures at all, either with jealousy or inclusion. And they did have separate bedrooms. Martin didn't even know where to begin with any of that.)</p><p>Despite the occasional kitchen table medical emergency, there was something cozy about Pinhole Books. Martin discovered he actually enjoyed having other people around in the evenings, terrifying exploits aside. They didn't share big group dinners or anything, but eating a ready meal at the same time that Gertrude was having a cup of tea or Jon was shamelessly stealing Gerry's chips … it was <em>companionable, </em>in a weird way.</p><p>If it hadn't been for the nightmares, it might've started to feel like home.</p>
<hr/><p>Gertrude Robinson was a difficult woman to pin down, but persistence was a virtue, and Sasha could be very, very persistent.</p><p>She wrote off Gerard and Jon right away as sources of more information — the former was too cagey, too good at changing the subject, and the latter simply clammed up or pleaded ignorance when she pressed him with further questions about the monsters they were apparently so well-versed in fighting. Maybe he really was ignorant, or maybe he was lying, but either way she quickly worked out that she wasn't getting any further with him than with his partner in crime.</p><p>(Crime, of course, because she was pretty sure the pesticides they'd brought to Martin's flat weren't something you could just buy retail. And if Gertrude had set the fire that killed the Institute, well, law wasn't Sasha's specialty, but she was pretty sure that was worth at least a manslaughter charge.)</p><p>Martin probably knew even less than Jon — Sasha had resisted the urge to interrogate him, because he'd just had a bad shock, and because given the way their work relationship stood at present she wasn't sure he wouldn't just lash out at her again. That left Gertrude herself, loathe Sasha was to get up close and personal with a murderer. (Manslaughter-er?) Gertrude, and the strange game of social cat-and-mouse necessary to actually pin her down.</p><p>She started by phoning the shop, leaving messages with Jon and Gerard and on one occasion a woman named Mary. (Surely not Mary Keay — though she supposed ghosts were as possible as anything else, now that she knew about them. But surely they wouldn't have one answering the phone?) After planting a few of these, she ambushed Martin as he was leaving the office. "By the way, has Gertrude gotten back from her trip?"</p><p>"I — er — what?" Martin stammered.</p><p>"I called the shop looking for her," Sasha told him. "Even left my number. She was 'out' every time, so I just assumed … unless I've just got bad luck?"</p><p>Martin dithered with his hands a bit. He was a good liar when he'd had a bit of time to rehearse, Sasha had discovered, but he wasn't great with improv. "Maybe? I haven't … I mean, I stay out of the business side of things, mostly, so I don't really know—"</p><p>"Has she been around the shop or not?" Sasha asked. "I'd hate to think I just kept missing her."</p><p>"I mean, a bit?" Martin said, and grimaced like he knew he'd given up something he wasn't supposed to.</p><p>Sasha pretended to look downcast. "Oh. Well, then. I suppose I'll just … keep trying?"</p><p>And Martin, as she'd predicted, blurted out, "I can ask her? I mean, the next time I see her? Maybe?"</p><p>"Oh, would you?" Sasha beamed at him, as Martin hastily assured her that of course he would, it was no trouble at all.</p><p>As he scurried out of the office, Tim said sharply, "That was mean, Sasha."</p><p>"What?" she asked; she couldn't quite mask that she was feeling pleased with herself for that performance. "I just asked him for a favor."</p><p>Tim scoffed. "Please. I've seen you work before, Ms. Social Engineering. If you want to talk to Gertrude, go talk to her, but leave Martin out if it."</p><p>That deflated her sense of accomplishment. "I'm already leaving <em>you </em>out of it," she said, letting her voice go a bit sharp. "So I've got to have some allies."</p><p>Tim flinched a little. While she'd been planting her phone messages at Pinhole Books (and combing the library in the meantime, for any references to eldritch fear-eaters), he'd been sunk in a funk; there were a couple of days he'd showed up obviously hungover, and Sasha had been torn between the urge to check in and the petty desire to ignore him — if he didn't want to help her, why should she help him?</p><p>He at least seemed fully sober now, if a bit sleep deprived, and he didn't meet her eyes when he said, "I'm just saying, that wasn't really <em>ally </em>behavior, was it? You could've just asked him up front."</p><p><em>But he would've said no</em>, Sasha wanted to argue, but she doubted that line of argument would go over well. Instead, she said, "Tim, if you want me to leave you out of this, then <em>stay </em>out. It goes both ways."</p><p>"I know," he said, and raked a hand through his hair, though it was already so mussed he could really only improve it. "Doesn't stop me from worrying about you, though. <em>Either</em> of you."</p><p>"You might worry less if you were helping," she suggested, but her heart wasn't in it. He'd seemed quite final in his rejection, and even if he regretted it now, she had a feeling his pride wouldn't let him come crawling back.</p><p>Just as she expected, Tim shook his head. "I can't — look, I know I blew my top at you last week when we talked about this, and I owe you an apology for that. I shouldn't have lost my temper. But I still think you're doing the wrong thing."</p><p>"Is it because you don't trust me?" she asked.</p><p>"Of course I trust you," he said, as if it should've been obvious. "But this isn't about trust. You could do everything right, take every precaution, and still get killed. Or worse."</p><p>Of course. This wasn't even about her, really. It was always about his brother, and the trauma he refused to process. <em>Men. </em>"I understand that," she said, keeping her voice even. "I really, really do. I started in Artefact Storage, remember?"</p><p>"You <em>quit </em>Artefact Storage as soon as a research position popped up," Tim muttered.</p><p>She shrugged. "That was my choice. And I'm choosing again. Knowing the risks."</p><p>"I know, I know." He peered up at her, though the bags under his eyes made the expression less kicked-puppy and more pathetic-basset-hound. "I'm sorry, Sasha."</p><p>"Me, too," was all she said, and then she left for the night before she could <em>actually </em>get angry with him.</p><p>Sasha had been prepared to wait a few days to escalate further, but Gertrude surprised her by moving first. Specifically, she returned Sasha's call at eight-twenty-two in the morning on a Thursday. Even if Sasha hadn't been in a part of the Tube where her reception was shittiest, she wasn't going to answer a sensitive phone call about monsters in the middle of rush hour. Instead she listened to the voicemail while waiting in line for a coffee at that little shop on Vauxhall Bridge Road.</p><p>
  <em>"Good morning, Sasha. I'm sorry to have returned your call at such a delay. Please let me know when you are available so we can work out a more convenient time to discuss your questions. I do look forward to hearing from you."</em>
</p><p>The call came from a blocked number, not the bookshop's line. Oh, she was <em>good. </em></p><p>The next stage of escalation was texting Jon. She got the number from an old office directory, rather than asking Martin for it; the last thing she wanted was for Gertrude to identify him as a security vulnerability and kick him out of the shop. Sasha didn't know Jon quite as well as she'd got to know Martin, but from what she remembered he was introverted and a bit socially dense, so she calibrated her attack accordingly.</p><p>
  <em>Hi!! 😀😀😀</em>
</p><p>As she suspected, it took him a while to respond. <em>Sorry, who's this?</em></p><p>
  <em>It's Sasha! 👋👋 I wasn't sure you still had this number!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sasha James?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you know a lot of other Sashas? 😎</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Can I help you?</em>
</p><p>She smiled to herself. <em>Just went looking if Gertrude had a mobile number on file here, and I found yours! 🎉🎉🎉 My lucky day! </em></p><p>Jon didn't reply to that. Sasha didn't mind. She kept up a steady barrage of banality - inane comments, soft-focus pictures of her lunch, and of course, lots of emoji. When she ran out of ideas, she went through the Instagram accounts of some acquaintances from uni for inspiration.</p><p>He held out all day, which was impressive. She started again promptly at six in the morning.</p><p>Martin looked at her warily when she arrived in the office mid-text. "Er, hi, Sasha."</p><p>"Good morning," she said, settling in at her desk.</p><p>Martin hemmed and hawed a bit, and looked at Tim, who put his earbuds in and turned resolutely away. "Er …. Sasha?"</p><p>"Yes, Martin?"</p><p>"Are you … okay?"</p><p>She beamed at him. "Perfectly fine, Martin. And you?"</p><p>"Oh, I'm … er … good. Y'know, considering." He squirmed in place a bit. "I heard you texted Jon yesterday?"</p><p>She made an affirmative noise around her coffee cup. "Texting him right now, in fact."</p><p>"Oh." Martin bit his lip. "Is there a … reason you've been texting him?"</p><p>"Not really," she lied. "Just stumbled on his mobile number while I was looking for Gertrude's and thought I'd say hello."</p><p>Martin's eyes narrowed. "You've said a lot more than hello."</p><p>"Do you want me to make a group chat?" she asked, proud of how straight she was keeping her face while doing so. "I'll add you and Tim. Gerard, too, if he's got a mobile."</p><p>Martin stared her down, but Sasha didn't break character.</p><p>"I found some really cute Minions memes," she added.</p><p>By mid-morning, Jon finally responded: <em>if i give you gertrudes number will you stop</em></p><p>
  <em>Maybe 😉</em>
</p><p>He sent a number, and a bit of cursory searching made it seem legit. <em>Thank you for your cooperation, </em>she texted back, and then got back to work.</p><p>She didn't expect Gertrude to actually answer if she called, so she took her time working out a script for a voicemail. "Hi," she said, "Sorry it took me so long to call back, I guess I misplaced your mobile number. Don't worry, though, I've got it now! I'm free to chat this coming Sunday if you are. Time's not a problem — I'm free all day!"</p><p>She waited for Gertrude's move, and while she waited she tried to organize her thoughts and questions. She'd read deeply on the history of the Institute, which had led her almost by accident to Millbank Prison, and Robert Smirke — a name she recognized mostly because of how often Tim brought it up. Biographies of Smirke never mentioned much about his interest in occultism except to link it vaguely to the Spiritualist movement, and it was exactly that sort of gap in the literature that had her climbing the walls. The pattern was <em>there, </em>Gerard had outlined it for her, but there were still so many blank spaces, so many things that didn't seem to fit….</p><p>She made a list of questions in a moleskine notebook. If she actually did get any of Gertrude's time, she planned to take notes.</p><p>The official hours of Pinhole Books were 10:00-15:00 on Sundays, and Sasha was outside the door at ten exactly. She waited for five minutes for anyone to open up voluntarily before she started knocking.</p><p>After seven and a half minutes of sustained knocking, the door finally opened, and Gerard stuck his head out. He was sporting some truly magnificent bedhead, and squinted at the daylight like it might've stolen his wallet. "Yeah?"</p><p>"Good morning," Sasha said. "I'm here to see Gertrude."</p><p>"Okay," said Gerard. He shut the door again.</p><p>Sasha resumed knocking.</p><p>He popped his head back out, and now took the time to properly glare at her. "She isn't here," he snapped.</p><p>She gave him her best smile, and hoped he wasn't paying attention to how tightly she was clutching her bag. "I'll wait."</p><p>He gave her a bleary, but measuring, look, and then shut the door again.</p><p>This time she didn't resume knocking. She'd worn her most comfortable shoes, and brought a purse large enough to tote two bottled waters and a handful of protein bars. She just stood, directly outside the door, and waited. Anyone coming in or out of the main door — including customers — would have to go through her, and while she wasn't sure she was up to dealing with physical force, she was at least prepared to make the conversation preceding it very difficult.</p><p>By the time Gerard returned, he'd at least run a comb through his hair, though there was still quite a bit of gingery stubble shading his jaw. "You're just going to stand there all day?" he asked.</p><p>"Well, unless you let me in," Sasha said.</p><p>Gerard rolled his eyes. "Look, Martin's gone out for the day—"</p><p>"I'm not here to see him," she said; it was important to keep that part clear. "I'm here to see Gertrude. She's expecting me."</p><p>"Yeah," Gerard said. "Which is why she <em>left."</em></p><p>Sasha leaned in, slightly, though he had a significant height advantage thanks to the stairs. "I can wait."</p><p>He rolled his eyes at her, but left the door hanging open as he plodded back up the stairs. Sasha made sure to shut it behind her. No reason to drive up the heating bills.</p><p>The bookshop wasn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination. There wasn't a clearly defined front desk or waiting area, so Sasha found a horizontal surface that wasn't already stacked with books, and sat on it. There was no sign of Jon or Gertrude; just Gerard, occasionally wandering through the room and then back out without acknowledging her presence. She had never been so loudly ignored.</p><p>Fortunately, she had also brought a paperback. She even managed to read a bit of it.</p><p>Exactly two customers came in during the entire time she was there. One walked straight to the back, ignoring her completely, and left with two books; one came with a bundle wrapped in newspaper, and looked at her furtively until Gerard escorted them into the office. That person left in a rush, and a few minutes later Gerard went upstairs with the bundle in one hand and a metal pail in the other. He came downstairs, eventually, with just the pail, which was smoking slightly.</p><p>Sasha put her book away, and switched to Twitter.</p><p>At five minutes to three, Gerard emerged from the back office again and spoke to her for the first time since letting her up. "We're closing soon."</p><p>"I know," Sasha told him, without looking up from her phone.</p><p>"That means you have to leave."</p><p>"I'm waiting for Gertrude."</p><p>"Well, she's clearly not waiting for you."</p><p>"I'm sure she's just running late."</p><p>He raised an eyebrow at her. "I could throw you out for trespassing," he said slowly.</p><p>She forced a polite smile. "Not until three o'clock."</p><p>"And then?"</p><p>"Well," Sasha said, "we're both better hope that Gertrude arrives by then."</p><p>He groaned. "Look, what is it you want? You want answers?" He flung his arms wide. "Ask me anything, I'm a Reddit post."</p><p>"I appreciate the offer," she said, sincerely, "but I'd rather hear these things from the top."</p><p>His glare could've melted steel. "You do know she technically works for me, right? I'm the one who owns this place."</p><p>"Then I might have to file a complaint about the customer service," Sasha said, as brightly as she could manage.</p><p>Gerard threw his hands up and went back into the back room of the shop. As the clock ticked past three, he didn't come back out.</p><p>Gertrude finally re-appeared at half past; she strode into the bookshop and stopped cold directly in front of Sasha, though her face didn't actually betray surprise. In fact, if anything, she looked faintly pleased. "Well played, Miss James," she said.</p><p>"Well met, Miss Robinson," Sasha said in return. Gertrude seemed to be every inch the intimidating presence she remembered from their occasional encounters at the Institute — moreso, in fact, since she wasn't pretending to totter around in a baggy cardigan anymore. She stood with her back straight and shoulders square, and though she only came up to Sasha's shoulder, she had a presence about her that felt larger, or maybe denser. Something gravitational.</p><p>It was intimidating as hell, even without the conviction that she'd killed people. And Sasha had spent most of the week running her down like a deranged paparazzo. Bit late to back down now, though.</p><p>"If you can spare a moment while I put my things away," Gertrude continued, while Sasha reconsidered numerous choices, "I think I owe you a chat."</p><p>"Of course," Sasha said. "I mean, I'd appreciate it."</p><p>They ended up in the postage stamp of a kitchen at the very back of the shop, and Gertrude made tea. "Now," she said, "I am aware you have questions for me. As it happens, I also have a few questions for you."</p><p>"You do?" Sasha asked blankly.</p><p>"Oh, yes," Gertrude said. "So I propose an exchange. Your answers for mine. Does that seem reasonable?"</p><p>It seemed, to Sasha, like one final tactic to avoid answering too many questions. But Gertrude had outflanked her on that front, so she supposed she'd have to make every question count. "I think so. Would you like to start?"</p><p>Gertrude raised her mug to her lips. "After you."</p><p>Sasha took a deep breath and scanned her list of points. There were … a lot of them. Might as well start with the big ones. "What <em>are </em>these, these entities? The ones that feed off fear?'</p><p>She chuckled. "My dear, you might as well ask a physicist for a unified field theory. The Dread Powers exist outside the everyday world; they <em>cannot </em>exist <em>within</em> it, and what we know about them is less than a shadow on a wall. The … <em>lore, </em>I suppose you'd call it, since it hardly qualifies as scholarship … can scarcely agree on anything other than their existence and their ability to interfere with us."</p><p>Damn. She supposed she'd reached a bit too far with that. "So is there a fixed number—?"</p><p>"Ah, ah." Gertrude waggled a finger at her. "It's my turn."</p><p>Right. Sasha fought the urge to drum her pen against the side of her mug. "Of course."</p><p>Gertrude cocked her head to the side as if thinking. As if she hadn't already planned this sort of thing. "What's the new director of the Institute like? I confess I was surprised the board elected to even keep the place open."</p><p>"He's … okay, I suppose?" Sasha said. It felt like a trick question; it felt like, somehow, there was a right answer, and she didn't know what it was. "Bit of a recluse. Even getting a phone call from him is a landmark occasion. I don't know anything about the board, though it seems like funding's dried up, since they haven't hired very many new people. Haven't even cleaned out the Archives properly."</p><p>That seemed to satisfy her; she wrapped both hands around her mug and nodded. "I see. Your next question?"</p><p>How to make this one count? "If it's so difficult to know anything about these Dread Powers, how did <em>you </em>find out about them? Through the Institute, or—?"</p><p>That provoked a bit of a smile. "On the job training, you might say. I was always more curious than sensible, even before I joined the archives, but once I had access to the full scope of the Institute's knowledge base, I was able to start piecing things together."</p><p>Knowledge that had largely burned with the Archives. Convenient, Sasha thought.</p><p>Gertrude took a dramatically appropriate pause to sip her tea, then asked, "So how do you spend your time, then, with so few staff and so little funding? I assume the library is still largely in working order, despite the discrepancies Martin was asking about when he first contacted us."</p><p>As if she didn't know <em>exactly </em>what those were about. Sasha shrugged, and sipped from her own mug. "Right, and I think there's been a few new statements given? But most of my time is spent trying to reconstruct whatever bits and bobs survived the fire. Which is a pain and a half, when it's even possible, but the director does want the most complete investigation we can provide."</p><p><em>That </em>seemed to get Getrude's attention. She froze, however briefly, with her mug halfway off the table. "I see."</p><p>And Sasha was torn, almost paralyzed with indecision, over whether to pursue that or stick to her own list. Damn it all. "... If the Dread Powers exist outside of our world, how is it they're able to interact with it at all?"</p><p>"Fear feeds them," Gertrude explained. "Fear constitutes them, according to some theories. However it is that human emotions interact with the cosmos, fear passes out of our world and into theirs, and allows them, ever so slightly, to push back. Consequently, they tend to … latch on, I suppose, to places and objects associated with intense, specific fears. To the people who feel that fear, or those who cause it."</p><p>"Which one was Jane Prentiss?" Sasha asked, without thinking about whose turn it was.</p><p>Gertrude's face was inscrutable. "I don't know. She did come in and leave a statement shortly before her … transformation … but obviously it didn't reach me quickly enough for anything to be done."</p><p>Or perhaps it had, and Gertrude had chosen to just sit back and watch. Or perhaps … Sasha shook her head. "Your turn."</p><p>"Two, if I'm keeping accurate count." Gertrude paused. "If the original archives haven't been fully restored, what do you do with your reconstructed statements?"</p><p>"We … send them on to the director?" Sasha wasn't sure what Gertrude might be getting at. "He reviews the work personally, and then … I suppose he must file them? Not like there's any shortage of room upstairs for them, these days."</p><p>"I see." Why on earth was Gertrude looking so grave? "And there's nothing else peculiar afoot in the Institute these days?"</p><p>Sasha had never had a formidable temper, but she'd just about had it with the pretenses and politeness. "I don't know, Gertrude, how would you define 'peculiar?' I have to go into a building every day with the ghost of over a hundred of my colleagues, to do an impossible job on a shoestring of a budget, but there don't appear to be any <em>worm monsters </em>hanging about, so I suppose nothing's really out of the ordinary, is it?"</p><p>"Poor choice of words," Gertrude admitted. "I apologize."</p><p>But Sasha wasn't going to give her the chance to regroup without getting in a question of her own. "Can these places, these people ever be saved, once something's latched onto them?" she asked. "Or are they always doomed to end up like Prentiss?"</p><p>She did seemingly stop and think about this one, which Sasha appreciated. "There is a point, I think," she said slowly, "before which — yes. If a person changes the path he is on, if a place becomes less … resonant, for lack of a better term, with the Power that's claimed it? Such a thing isn't easy, of course, but not because of any eldritch monstrosities. That said … some choices, once made, cannot be revoked. And Ms. Prentiss has made her choice."</p><p>"But why would anyone choose that…?"</p><p>Gertrude drained her mug. "I'm afraid I've run out of questions for you, Miss James. Which means our game is at an end."</p><p>Which is what Sasha had agreed to, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She stuffed her notebook back into her bag with more force than strictly necessary, and ignored the rest of the tea in her mug. "Well, I haven't run out of questions for you."</p><p>"I don't doubt it," she said. "And while under other circumstances I might suggest we reconvene another time, the truth is that I am a busy woman. I doubt we'll see each other again."</p><p>"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Sasha told her.</p><p>Gertrude raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome to think otherwise. By all means, keep harassing Martin and my colleagues. I'm sure their patience is infinite and their capacity for retaliation is limited."</p><p>Damn, damn, damn. Sasha shrugged her bag onto her shoulder and stood. "I don't understand what the point of all this secrecy is. Why the games? Why not just <em>tell </em>me things?"</p><p>Instead of answering — because <em>of course </em>not<em> — </em>Gertrude said, "Did you know that, at once point, I considered you my most likely successor?"</p><p>Sasha blinked. "As the head archivist?"</p><p>"Mm-hmm." Gertrude began clearly away the tea, dumping the undrunk portion from Sasha's cup down the sink. "It was always Elias's decision, of course, but I knew no one else so perfectly suited for it."</p><p>Which didn't make any sense — Sasha's degrees were in computer science and parapsychology, not library science or anything of that nature. If this was an attempt at flattery or something, it was a terrible one. "Well, I don't suppose it matters anymore," she said. "Since there is no more archive, and no need for an archivist."</p><p>"Quite right," Gertrude said, and proceeded to begin washing the dishes.</p><p>Frustrated, Sasha stormed out of the shop; she passed Martin on the stairs, but gave him only a cursory greeting. A complete waste of a day, and for what? A scant handful of answers that mostly just spawned more questions.</p><p>Well, Sasha hadn't gotten this far in her career without knowing how to gather information. She just wasn't sure where to start.</p><p><br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Shut Up and Dance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin has nightmares. Jon and Gerry do the dishes. </p><p>Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Worms</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The nightmares usually went like this:</p><p>Martin was in his flat, or sometimes, increasingly, at Pinhole Books. He was frantically stuffing clothes into the cracks around the doors, the windows, down the drains — because everywhere he looked they were coming in. Worms spewing from the taps. Worms belching out of the toilet. Worms dropping from light fixtures and outlets like silver drops of rain. Every time he blocked one source, he found another; every time he smashed one, five more wriggled up to take its place; and just when it seemed the situation couldn't get more hopeless, he realized the windows were black with tiny writhing bodies, and beginning to crack—</p><p>He didn't usually wake up screaming, but sometimes it was a very near thing.</p><p>Blearily, Martin checked the time; less than an hour until his alarm was set to go off anyway, so he might as well just get up now. The building was quiet, so he gathered up his clothes and slunk into the bath to start his day.</p><p>Mary was wafting around the shop, leaving trails of frigid air in her wake; Martin still hadn't worked out yet if there were patterns, or rules, or something that explained when she had to be visible and tangible, versus when she could lurk unseen. He tried to ignore her as he fixed himself a cup of tea in the kitchen (and half-debated switching to Gerry's instant coffee just for the caffeine).</p><p>"Looks like someone's having a rough night," Mary said, leaning against the doorway.</p><p>"It's fine," Martin said, automatically.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, she didn't take the hint. "Still sensing the Crawling Rot on your heels?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>She clucked her tongue. "Don't try to lie to me, dear. I can see its mark on you. Or, well," she shrugged a little. "In this case, <em>smell </em>it."</p><p>Martin's stomach lurched. Jon and Gerry both kept telling him not to engage with Mary, he knew he shouldn't, but — "What do you mean, its mark?"</p><p>"It's the reason you're here, isn't it?" She sat in the chair across from his, except she didn't actually pull it out to do so. Just sort of … clipped through it, except in real space. It made Martin's eyes hurt. "Waiting for — Jane, wasn't it? — to try and finish her meal."</p><p>Right. And as long as he was still having nightmares about her, he supposed she didn't have any incentive to leave off and find someone else to terrorize. Martin sighed, staring into his tea. "But I'm safe here, aren't I? Jon said it was safe…?"</p><p>"Oh, well, <em>safety." </em>She flicked one hand. "It's all a matter of degree, isn't it? You're safer here than you'd be most other places. Less safe than some. And safe from <em>what</em>, well, that's the rub."</p><p>With a flourish of her other hand, she placed something on the table. It was a small, screw-top jar, one that reminded Martin of the cups doctors gave you for urine samples. This didn't have any labels or stickers on it, though, and inside it—</p><p>Inside were two fat, silvery worms, one still twitching feebly.</p><p>Martin instinctively recoiled, shoving his chair back from the table without regard for the noise. "Where," he stammered, choked, tried again. "Where did you get those?"</p><p>"My Gerard found them outside," she said sweetly. "They aren't the first, either. I think the cafe next door might've hired exterminators."</p><p>"Why didn't they—?" <em>Tell me, </em>was what Martin wanted to ask, but it was an obvious answer, wasn't it? Poor, scared Martin doesn't need anything else to worry about. Poor, traumatized Martin couldn't handle it. Just like the ghosts and the monsters and everything <em>else </em>around here. He sighed.</p><p>"I suspect they didn't want to worry your precious little head," Mary said, echoing Martin's thoughts. "After all, just because she's <em>found </em>you doesn't mean she's going to <em>do </em>anything about it, right? And you're so <em>safe </em>here…"</p><p>"I'm going to work," Martin announced, abandoning his tea.</p><p>He dwelled it on it all day, to the point of barely getting anything done. (Sasha had taken most of his inbox for her own inexplicable purposes anyway.) If Prentiss was coming for him — not just lurking in his nightmares but also outside the bookshop — he didn't want to just sit around and <em>wait, </em>like a damsel in distress, while Jon and Gerry and Gertrude took care of it. He wanted to do something useful. He wanted to be <em>ready. </em>He just didn't know what he needed to get ready <em>for. </em></p><p>A brainwave struck him while he was waiting in line at the Polish deli, after work. It was nearly Easter, so there were special displays of egg-dying kits, babkas wrapped in colorful cellophane, huge hams and the like. Martin was trying to look at something besides a cheap plastic lamb displayed at eye level, inexpertly painted so that its face appeared to be sliding grotesquely off to one side; his eyes settled on a table of artfully arranged wine bottles.</p><p>He suddenly had a terrible, faintly disgusting idea. But it was better than being helpless, right?</p><p>Secure in his purchases, he crossed the road back to Pinhole Books. The shop was long closed by then, but he could hear music from the kitchen, something familiar from the Top 40 station they played in the Institute's canteen. Curious, Martin peered into the kitchen and found Jon and Gerry, shoulder to shoulder before a sink full of dishes. Jon had rolled his sleeves up, and had water all slopped down his front; Gerry was wearing yellow dish gloves, and singing into a scrubbing brush. <em>"Ooh, we were born to get together, born to get together—"</em></p><p>Jon, laughing, flicked a handful of suds into Gerry's face. "Stop that. We're never going to finish like this—"</p><p>But that just prompted Gerry to drop the brush and grab Jon with his own wet, soapy gloves, manhandling him into a vaguely waltz-like push and pull while bobbing in time with the music. <em>"Oh don't you dare look back," </em>he kept singing, gleefully off key, <em>"just keep your eyes on me—"</em></p><p>Jon kept squirming, but he was laughing too hard to do more than gasp "Fuck <em>off—!"</em></p><p>
  <em>"Shut up and dance—!" </em>
</p><p>On the exuberant chorus, Gerry attempted to throw Jon, shrieking, into a dramatic dip. He was fortunate that Jon's head missed the kitchen table and all the chairs. In the process, Gerry pivoted on one foot, and realized for the first time that Martin was lurking in the doorway, watching them goof around.</p><p>He straightened, too suddenly. Jon's feet slid out from under him, and he landed flat on his arse on the floor, swearing.</p><p>"Sorry," Martin said, as Gerry whipped off one glove to fiddle with the bluetooth speaker on the windowsill. "I didn't — you don't have to stop — "</p><p>Jon clambered up off the floor, flushed and extremely wet. "Sorry," he said, as if <em>he'd </em>done something wrong. "We weren't — I thought we'd be done with the washing up by now —"</p><p>Gerry finally got the music to switch off, and they all just sort of stared at one another for a moment. Martin remembered the box in his hands, and thrust it out at them. "I got pierogi for everyone."</p><p>"Cool," Gerry said. He was a bit pink in the face himself; he tried to fold his arms over his chest, seemingly forgetting he was still wearing one wet rubber glove. "From, er, the place across the street?"</p><p>"Yeah." Martin put the box on the table and opened it up. "Half meat and half potato."</p><p>"I didn't know they did potato?"</p><p>"I mean, most places do? Just ask for <em>pierogi ruskie..."</em></p><p>"Aha!" Gerry pointed a finger at him. "The secret menu!"</p><p>Jon, who had grabbed the mop out of the corner, stopped flailing it around for a moment. "You speak Polish, then?"</p><p>Martin felt himself going red. God, were they all just going to stand around blushing at one another? "A bit? Not great, but my mum used to speak it with her parents."</p><p>"Maybe that's the secret menu," Gerry opined. He took the mop from Jon. "All I know is, the lady there does <em>not </em>like me and does <em>not </em>tell me about their pierogi options."</p><p>"Yes, and the fact you don't speak Polish is surely the biggest problem there," Jon said, bone dry, but with a wicked glint in his eye as he looked towards Martin. Martin's heart leapt in his chest.</p><p>Gerry swatted Jon with a wet towel, breaking the moment.</p><p>Late that night, full of pierogi and generally positive feelings, Martin took out his other purchase of the day. The cashier had tried to talk him out of it, or shift his attention to a sturdier option — but Martin wasn't worried about spoiling his wine or shredding a cork. This corkscrew looked like an actual screw, a slender shaft with a sharp coil wrapped around it. The perfect diameter for piercing a fat silver worm and plucking it right out of a hole in the ground. Or the wall. Or someone's flesh—</p><p>He ripped off the packaging, and stuck the screw itself under the couch cushion. It was probably stupid, and the odds he'd actually get much use out of it were slim to none. But it made him feel slightly better.</p>
<hr/><p>For the last few weeks, Jon had been waking up every night like clockwork around three AM feeling like a wrung-out washcloth, and tonight was no different. He surfaced blearily from a strange, arachnid dreamscape, and rose from his bed like a mummy from its sarcophagus to stumble half-awake down to the kitchen, where he steadily drank about a gallon of water from the filter, cup by cup. He had tried drinking more water throughout the day to avoid this, but it didn’t seem to make a difference; he still woke with his eyes burning and his throat like the Sahara.</p><p>He had, at least, mastered sneaking past Martin on the couch without waking him. The key was to slip on socks before he left his room, so his footsteps were muffled in the hallway. Tonight, he'd heard Martin mumbling in his sleep again: “Stay back… Stay back! I’m <em>armed</em>…”</p><p>A prickle of unease crept up the back of Jon’s neck, as he finished his third glass of water. He felt for Martin, uprooted in a way that wasn’t dissimilar to what had happened to him last year — and then Martin was forced to treat this place like a safehouse, yet go about the rest of his life as if things were more or less normal. Considering all that, he had coped outstandingly, but the effects of Prentiss’ attack were showing nevertheless, and Jon tended to absorb other peoples’ anxiety like a miserable sponge. It wasn’t that he blamed Martin for his own unrest; there were plenty of good reasons for that. However, he’d certainly had <em>less</em> trouble sleeping before Martin moved in.</p><p>Something creaked upstairs; Martin rolling over, most likely. Jon set his cup down in the sink, and realized as he did so that something smelled strange in the kitchen. Now that his airways didn’t burn with every breath, he could detect something earthy and oddly sweet hanging in the air, somewhere between wet dirt and the scent of a barbecue. He tried inhaling it more deeply, but that only made him yawn; he scrubbed at his eyes as they watered with fatigue.</p><p>When he lowered his hands, he found himself facing the kitchen window, which looked charmingly out onto the alley behind the building, full of skips and the double-parked cars of the neighbors. Jon felt a mild breeze across the room, bringing with it more of that earthy smell. Squinting, he realized that without his glasses on, he couldn’t see it, but the window must be open.</p><p>Jon was shuffling towards the blurry rectangle that was the window when, in the shadow of the adjacent corner, something <em>moved.</em> He couldn’t tell exactly what it was at a distance, but it was <em>big,</em> and he backed up fast, only to feel his socked foot come down on something squishy and yielding. It burst. He yelped, involuntary, and scrambled up against the counter, but the thing in the corner was still moving, sluggish but steady, getting closer. The floor was <em>also</em> moving, or whatever was down there blended into the tile in the dark—</p><p>
  <strong>run</strong>
</p><p>— then Jon felt a sharp, sudden pain in his right calf and everything made horrible sense.</p><p>“<em>Martin!”</em> He shouted at the top of his voice, and launched himself towards the doorway and up the stairs, skidding on worm guts. The dark, writhing shape that was Jane Prentiss lurched at him, and he dodged, successful only because he was more agile than what amounted to a hollowed-out corpse. He stumbled into the living room and fell on his arse on the rug, right next to where Martin had rolled off the couch in alarm. Jon shoved him. “Martin get up, get up, she’s coming!”</p><p>To his credit, Martin didn’t even need to ask who. He reached up and seized his glasses off of the side table, jammed them on his face, and snatched something from under his pillow as he hauled himself to his feet, dragging Jon with him by one elbow. Jon tugged him towards the hall. “Gertrude’s room,” he gasped, unaware when exactly he became out of breath. “No crack under the door—”</p><p>Martin followed him, and Jon clung to his arm on unsteady legs. Neither of them checked if Prentiss was behind. When they got to Gerry’s door, Martin wasted no time, pounding his fist on it so hard it rattled in its frame. <em>“WORMS,”</em> he hollered. Jon almost laughed, but his heartbeat was too high in his throat.</p><p>Gerry yanked the door open wearing only boxers. “The <em>fuck?”</em></p><p>“Worms,” Jon panted. “Prentiss. In the kitchen.”</p><p>“You’re fucking kidding,” Gerry said automatically, but he was already turning to grab his bath towel off his chair. There were silvery worms slithering up onto the landing now, moving faster than the hive, and he tossed the towel over them, then stomped across all the little bulges with prejudice.</p><p>“Out of the way.” Jon turned to see the fuzzy shape of Gertrude pushing past Martin, who had clearly been on his way to rattle her door as well; there was something cylindrical in her hand. She shouldered around him and through the door to Jon’s room, and seconds later he could hear her rummaging for something, tossing books and papers onto the floor. Gerry was trying the handle to the hall cupboard, where they kept most of their crisis management supplies. For some reason Jon was having trouble moving very fast, even as he tried to back out of Gerry’s way. He collided with Martin, who caught him; his chest was warm against Jon’s back. The hallway was quite small for four people.</p><p>He registered Gertrude emerging through Gerry’s bedroom doorway, having moved through the ensuite. Gerry gave up on the cupboard and ducked into Gertrude's room, just as Gertrude stepped forward to take his place in the hall. She held something out in front of her with both hands. Jon heard the familiar click of a lighter, and another <strong>click</strong> echoed in his head. He shouted: <em>“No!” </em></p><p>Gertrude ignored him and advanced, the can of aerosol hairspray outstretched before her, the flame of the lighter dancing. Jon could only see her blurred silhouette in the living room, and then he heard what must have been Prentiss’ voice, low and gurgling. “<em>Archivist…”</em></p><p>“Charmed,” Gertrude replied stonily, and blasted a jet of flames across the room.</p><p>There was a scream unlike anything Jon had ever heard, something massive and inhuman with countless branching nerves, all lit up with pain at once. It went on for ages, juddering around inside his skull, forcing him to feel the agony too; he was crumpled against the wall by the time it finally started fading. Martin was behind him, warm and solid, and then he was in front of Jon, tear tracks visible down his round cheeks when he leaned in close. Jon’s own face felt wet. Christ, when was the last time he had cried?</p><p>Gerry, still in nothing but his black skull-patterned boxers, pelted out of Gertrude’s room, carrying a large elongated red object- a fire extinguisher. Jon couldn’t hear everything he was saying over the scream still ringing through his body, but something about books, this being a bookshop, flamethrowers in a bookshop, and: “Are you <em>fucking mental?!”</em></p><p>Then a whoosh, the fire extinguisher going off, and Jon’s leg throbbed with pain more intense than it had been so far. He looked down, and with a sensation like someone reaching into his chest and <em>squeezing</em> his heart in their fist, he saw the vague, wriggling shapes of five or six silver worms that were burrowing their way into his flesh, studded all the way up to his thigh.</p><p>Martin leaned over him, and Jon saw he had a corkscrew in his hand. He groaned, knowing what was about to happen, and tipped his head back against the wall, dizzy and overwhelmed. “Martin, please,” he croaked, unsure what exactly he was asking for; mostly for this not to be <em>happening</em> in the first place, he realized dully.</p><p>“Shh.” Martin pushed up the leg of Jon's joggers, far too gently for someone about to perform impromptu surgery. His voice was trembling slightly, but his hands were steady. “These need to come out — Just try and hold still, okay?” He took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself, then looked at Jon with a lopsided, nervous half-smile. He held up the corkscrew. “Got just the tool for the job, right here.”</p><p>Jon swore at him. It didn’t help in the slightest.</p>
<hr/><p>After the clean-up was mostly done, and Gerard had thrown open all the windows to let out the smell of burning worms, Martin found Jon on the roof. He was sat in one of the camp chairs, curled in on himself a bit, smoking. At some point he'd properly dressed the wounds on his leg, clean white gauze to cover the gorey holes the worms and the corkscrew had made. The other leg was bouncing aimlessly, frantically.</p><p>As Martin watched, Jon fumbled a fresh cigarette out of the pack at his feet, then pressed it to the cherry-end of one he'd nearly smoked down to the filter. He dropped the butt into an old coffee can, rather than grinding it under his foot, for which Martin was grateful.</p><p>"Are you okay?" Martin asked; Jon jumped like a startled cat. "Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you."</p><p>"It's all right," Jon said quietly, exhaling smoke as he did so. He looked at the cigarette in his hands and toyed with it, as if to hide how much his hands were shaking. "And you know what, I’ve definitely — I’ve been better."</p><p>"Yeah. Me, too." Martin gingerly settled into the other camp chair. "You should probably get that leg seen."</p><p>Jon made a little dismissive wave. "Gerry's got one hell of a first-aid kit. I'll be fine."</p><p>"That's really not—" Martin started to say, but given how many cigarette butts had accumulated in the coffee can already, <em>healthy </em>may have already left the station. "It'll probably heal faster with stitches," he said, and didn't add, <em>not ones performed by Gertrude.</em></p><p>"Hrm." Jon took another drag off his cigarette.</p><p>For a moment they sat in mutual silence. It was the murky in-between hours when the night owls met the early risers, not that the streets around the shop had many of either. Jon finished his cigarette, and immediately started in on a third.</p><p>The silence between them was the opposite of awkward — it was calm, almost intimate. Maybe that was what gave Martin the courage to ask a question that had been bothering him almost since he and Jon had gotten re-acquainted. "You...don't seem to like it much, do you? The, erm…"</p><p>"The leg work," Jon said. The phrase was just familiar enough that Martin suspected he was quoting something but had no idea what it was. "And no, I can't say I enjoy flinging myself into the path of a new horribleness whenever Gertrude gets an idea into her head."</p><p>"I mean, this particular horribleness was mostly my fault," Martin pointed out.</p><p>Jon flicked a bit of ash from his cigarette. "Yes, well, please try not to attract any more undead flesh hives, if you would."</p><p>"Not — not planning on it." That companionable silence settled in again. Jon finished his cigarette and this time didn't light another. Martin finally worked up the nerve to pose his next question. "Why do you stay, then, if you don't like the work? I know, I know—" he raised a hand briefly, before Jon could remind him of Gertrude and her secrets. "She promised to help you, but from where I'm sitting, all you've gotten so far is some weird-looking scars. Why not just quit?"</p><p>Jon scoffed softly. "And go where? There's not a tremendous job market for unemployed parapsychologists, is there?"</p><p>"You could come back to the institute…?"</p><p><em>"No." </em>Jon said it sharply enough that Martin jumped a little. "I can't...even if I wanted to, I don't…" He sighed and pressed his face into his hands. "I can't go back there."</p><p>"You don't think the director would hire you back or—?"</p><p>Jon cut him off with a sharp sound of frustration. "A hundred and seven people <em>died, </em>Martin, and yet somehow I'm still here. A hundred and seven people, and yet I'm the only one who left in an ambulance rather than a body bag. The police can't explain it, the NHS can't explain it, Gertrude …" He sighed, and hung his head, shoulders slumped. "I don't understand what happened, and that — I don't know what to do about that. But I can't just go back there forty hours a week and pretend to be fine with it."</p><p>Martin could only nod, because — well, he'd had the same thoughts, hadn't he? Going back to work in the same building where so many people had died, people he would've called friends … if he hadn't needed the money so badly, if he hadn't been afraid of someone seeing through his CV, he might not have gone back either. "Still," he said, trying to sound encouraging. "There's got to be something better than … all this, you know?"</p><p>"Maybe for other people." Jon wasn't looking at Martin, but out over the rooftops and streetlights that strained against the darkness. "But I'm … <em>marked, </em>whatever that means. And sometimes it feels like the more I struggle against it, the harder I get pulled back in."</p><p>"Is that all she's told you?" Martin asked. "You're <em>marked? </em>Because so was I, and you lot just turned the thing that marked me into ashes. If all Gertrude can say is that you're <em>marked, </em>then maybe you need to look for answers somewhere else."</p><p>Jon blinked. "What are you suggesting? I can't exactly look up experts on eldritch fear-beasts on Craigslist."</p><p>"Who needs experts?" Martin said, and it at least managed to sound confident. "You've got me, and I've got the Institute's whole library. Well, the bits Gertrude hasn't already nicked." When Jon continued to look skeptical, Martin added, "You saved my life, Jon. Let me pay that back. We can figure this out on our own."</p><p>For a moment Jon just started at him, and Martin was about ninety percent sure he was going to get told off and possibly kicked out. But instead, Jon said, a bit breathlessly, "Okay. I — sure. Let's give it a go." Martin grinned at him, and Jon returned it uncertainly, like he'd forgotten how the procedure went. "Let's figure this out."</p><p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Persistance and Dumb Luck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha meets a stranger in a coffee shop. Jon and Martin meet each other in a coffee shop. They are different coffee shops.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The problem with finding more information about otherworldly fear-eating abominations turned out to be the overwhelming amount of information <em>not </em>about them. Forget needles and haystacks; this was a hundred haystacks and there might not even <em>be </em>a needle. Sasha read until her eyes burned most nights, but couldn't even be sure the books she'd dug for would have anything relevant, or that she might not gloss right over something important by accident</p><p>She tried focusing on statements for a while — if there was one about Prentiss, there had to be others — but even those were so frequently nonsense, assuming she could even put together enough key words from the charred fragments to verify anything about them. She tried widening the net, going through Tim's inbox and Martin's, even asking the other researchers; she even skulked through the building, checking unused rooms for the director's hidden caches, but only came up with locked doors and cobwebs for her trouble.</p><p>It wasn't like she was about to go launching herself at the next haunted apartment or sinister flowerbed she could hunt down, despite what Tim apparently thought. She just wanted somewhere to <em>start. </em>As her frustrations mounted, she resolved to herself that the first proper lead she ran across, the first real clue that pointed her closer to understanding it all — the monsters and the gods, the fire and the Institute — she was going to follow it without hesitation.</p><p>It just so <em>happened</em> that an unmistakable lead came directly to her.</p><p>She actually exercised a great deal of caution and restraint, considering the circumstances. She refrained from approaching the man when she saw him buying flowers, even though she’d pegged him straightaway as something like Prentiss, deceptive, unnatural and not quite <em>correct.</em> Distorted, was the word her brain supplied, though she wasn't sure why it seemed to fit so well.</p><p>She didn't stop when she saw him a second time, but instead went to work, did some research, and came up with little to show. She didn't mention anything about her suspicions to the others; Tim didn't want to be involved, and given Martin's stuttering explanation of Prentiss's death, she thought it would be unkind to involve him with another monster so soon.</p><p>She found him waiting for her in the exact same spot as before, in the coffee shop with an empty seat straight across from him, inviting her. Three times, she remembered, was enemy action, and this looked far too good to be true—</p><p>Ah, damn it all. She went in and sat down, and wasted no time in asking questions, lest her nerves show. “What are you, and what do you want with me?” she asked, and her voice didn't even shake.</p><p>He chuckled, and Sasha felt suddenly lightheaded, as though she hadn’t eaten all day, even though she had. “What are <em>you,</em> and what do you want with <em>me,</em> Sasha James?” the man asked, in a voice that swooped and climbed. “Those both seem like <em>far</em> more important questions to answer.”</p><p>It was hard to focus her eyes at the man across from her — Or, well, now that she was this close, it didn’t quite seem to <em>be</em> a man, even if it looked like one. Sasha didn’t want to sit there and avoid looking at it, though, or else she might seem as afraid as she was, so she tried removing her glasses. That was better; all his points and edges softened. “I want answers,” she replied. “I want to know what happened at the Magnus Institute a year ago. I want to know why it still exists. You know my name; you must know something else, something that’s worth my time.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know what it’s worth, everything that I know. But certainly more than your time, Sasha James. I am a luxury few can afford.” As hard as she was trying to calm her heartbeat, Sasha still jumped when it stood from its chair, because she had <em>seen</em> those massive hands like sacks of stone. But when it raised one to her, it only beckoned, curling a single finger that, when she squinted, might have had too many joints. “I know a place,” it said. “A place where answers live, among other things. I can show you.”</p><p>Sasha had resolved not to hesitate, but maybe, for a moment, she did. In the end, though, she jammed her glasses back on, picked up her bag and followed the — not a man, not a <em>thing — </em>out of the cafe and into the street.</p><p>“Do you have a name?” she asked, striding to catch up with it.</p><p>It turned, and smiled, leaning down at her while they walked, mouth curving upward just slightly too far. “No.”</p><p>“Er,” Sasha said.</p><p>“You can call me Michael,” it supplied serenely.</p><p>Sasha blinked, and faced forward again; her eyes were starting to water. “Right. Okay. Michael.” She decided to focus on walking, wherever they were headed.</p><p>It led her down a road marked Esterbrooke Street, though it was really barely more than an alley. On one side there were doors leading to flats or houses, but the other was a continuous expanse of brown and yellow brick, sporting a few narrow windows and a black steel door. If that building had a proper entrance, it faced another street.</p><p>Michael stopped at the door, and so Sasha stopped as well. It was unremarkable, to her eyes: exactly the sort of steel security door you might see in any building, with a round lock that gleamed in the sunset. The doorway was set several inches above street level, so actually using it would require an awkward step up, but there were no other distinguishing features. Based on the absence of a knob or handle, she assumed it was an emergency exit, perhaps grafted onto an older building to bring it up to code.</p><p>"Well?" she asked after a moment's study. "What is it you wanted to show me?"</p><p>Michael grinned, and there was something ever so slightly <em>off </em>about it, like its mouth was too wide for its face. It stretched out one finger and trailed it along the seam between the door and its frame. At least, that was what it looked like it was doing, from Sasha's perspective. But she also heard the shriek of tearing metal, and she could all too easily imagine the elongated claws she'd glimpsed through the window carving through the steel like soft butter.</p><p>There was a moment when nothing happened. Then the door, very slightly, sagged open on its creaking hinges.</p><p>Michael didn't move to interact with it again, so Sasha eased forward. She could just get enough grip with the pads of her fingers to pry the door open further. It was stiff — not from rust, as far as she could see, but perhaps just from disuse. When the edge of the door cleared the frame, she felt a bit of a breeze, as cool, dry air seeped through the crack. That … wasn't right, she thought. It was only just April, most buildings still had the heat on, so the outside air should be rushing in—</p><p>She made enough room for her fingers, got a firm grip on the door, and yanked it open. There was no crash bar on the other side, no warning signs: just a flight of concrete stairs, unlit, leading down.</p><p>"Where — what is this?" Sasha asked.</p><p>"That's for me to know," Michael said serenely, "and you to find out." It made a little <em>after-you </em>gesture, clearly indicating she should go down.</p><p>It was probably a terrible idea, descending into an unknown basement, but Sasha's curiosity was briefly stronger than her fear. She eased her way down the first few steps, but the weak daylight didn't penetrate far. After a moment, she realized that the stairs themselves were not concrete — they were stone, smooth and flat gray, fitted together without mortar, but so tightly that in places she couldn't even see the seams. She fumbled for her phone, the closest thing to a torch she had handy, but even that couldn't illuminate the bottom of the staircase. She'd have to keep going down.</p><p>The stairs went down a long, long way, far enough that she was surprised by the lack of damp seeping in. Rather than ending in a basement, the stairs levelled off in a narrow corridor, which swiftly came to a T junction. Sasha pointed the tiny beam of light from her phone one way, then the other, but both passages stretched far past the area she could illuminate. Far longer than Esterbrooke Street itself, unless her eyes were playing tricks on her. She chose a direction arbitrarily, and moved forward, scanning for doors, for signage, for lights—</p><p>No. There were no fixtures on the arched ceilings, no pipes or wires, no vents for aircon. (Not that such a cold, deep place would need it.) Sasha's heart began to pound as she realized this wasn't simply a basement. It was something much older, and she had no idea what it was, or how far the passage (the tunnel?) might actually lead...</p><p>That was the moment her phone gave a plaintive buzz, and promptly died completely.</p><p>She froze in her tracks. The darkness was velvety and total, unchanging no matter how long she waited for her eyes to adjust. Fine. That was fine. She hadn't made it far, or made any turns except for that first one. She reached out for a wall and found the cool, smooth stone. She could just follow it back to the stairs, right?</p><p>Sasha started walking, and for the first few paces it was fine, honestly fine. Then the wall she was tracking began to curve. Just slightly at first, just enough that she thought she might be imagining it — or maybe she simply hadn't noticed before the irregularities in the passage. But then the curvature became more pronounced, an unmistakable arc in the smooth, close-set stone. Which was impossible, because the corridor had been straight when the light was on, and—</p><p><em>They break the rules, </em>Jon had said, back in February. A monster could live for two years with worms devouring her flesh. A monster could have hands the size of toboggans that were only visible in reflection.</p><p>So what if a place was also a monster?</p><p>"No," Sasha said out loud, and her voice echoed. Was there really enough space down here for that? "I'm on Esterbrooke Street in Westminster. I walked in a straight line to get here, and I'm walking in a straight line now. This is a — a trick. That's all it is."</p><p>The wall kept curving, of course, making a sudden, sharp change from concave to convex. Taunting her for her bravado. Shouldn't she have found the stairs by now, anyway? Or was fear distorting her sense of time and space? Or perhaps her fear was letting something else distort them for her —</p><p>The wall beneath her hand vanished, and Sasha couldn't contain a little shriek. Carefully, oh so carefully, she felt for the corner, the steps. Right. If this wasn't <em>the </em>staircase, it was at least <em>a </em>stair, leading up. Back to street level, or some sort of light source. She climbed as quickly as she could, bracing herself against the walls in the absence of a rail.</p><p>The waning daylight felt like a benediction when she burst through the door, back onto the street. Michael, no surprises, was nowhere to be found.</p><p>Sasha glanced backward, down the shadowed stairs, but the darkness at the bottom was unchanged. If it suddenly seemed malevolent, hungry, waiting — well, that was all in her head. She shut the door, firmly, and walked away at a brisk pace before it had the chance to creak open again. By the time she'd got to Victoria, she'd even stopped shaking.</p>
<hr/><p>Once Martin had moved back into his flat, Jon had to manufacture excuses to meet with him without arousing Gertrude's suspicion. Perhaps fortunately for him, she seemed to be preoccupied with something that she wouldn't share with either him or Gerry, although that usually boded poorly in the long run. Gerry was also a bit preoccupied, though at least he was willing to share with the class; he showed Jon a set of photographs he'd strung up over his desk.</p><p>"Stranger activity," he explained. "Gertrude had told me it was quieting down a bit, once the Dark ritual went bust, but I think they're gearing up again for their shot. Properly, I mean."</p><p>Jon studied the pictures — a shop, some unremarkable-looking people, the front of what looked like Madame Toussaud's. "You never told me what the rituals are supposed to look like," he said, uneasy.</p><p>"That's because they don't look like any one thing," Gerry explained. "Especially not the Unknowing. She's got theories, says — well, she says lots of things. Won't really be able to make a plan until we know what <em>their </em>plan is."</p><p>"Wonderful." Jon straightened up and tugged on his collar. "I'm headed out this evening. Rumor has it there's either a Flesh manifestation or a very wonky fox in Clissold Park."</p><p>"I mean, could be both," Gerry said. He was bent over his computer again, typing in his obnoxious hunt-and-peck style. Not even questioning Jon's story. Jon wasn't sure if he felt more relieved or offended.</p><p>They met at the same 24-hour cafe in Stockwell where Jon and Gerry had explained the Entities to Tim and Sasha. Martin had already ordered a pot of tea and two cups. "How's the leg?" Martin said, as Jon settled into his seat.</p><p>"Healing," Jon reported. "Though I'm not about to run any marathons on it just yet."</p><p>Martin nodded. "Where, ah, where do you reckon we start?"</p><p>"If I knew that, I wouldn't need help," Jon said. Martin actually recoiled from him with big, startled eyes. "Sorry. Just … don't enjoy talking about it."</p><p>"I mean, you don't have to," Martin said. "Except, er, I guess you kind of do? If we're going to get anywhere?" He cringed.</p><p>Jon cringed too, and took a deep breath. Right. He could do this. "I suppose we can start with the fire."</p><p>"Right." Martin pulled out a composition book, the kind with the sewn binding rather than a spiral coil, which Jon hated, because it meant you couldn’t tear out your work without ruining the thing. He could only assume Martin was less touchy about revisiting his mistakes. "Is it okay if I take notes?"</p><p>"Go right ahead."</p><p>Jon couldn't think of anything to say after that, though; the whole experience — Christ, was it really only a year ago? — felt too big in his head, too much of a gestalt to put into words. Martin seemed to sense that, at least, as he waited a few minutes before prompting gently, "What do you remember, the day of the fire?"</p><p>"Very little," Jon admitted. "Apparently, when I passed out, I hit my head rather badly on the way down. I recall arriving at the Institute, doing a few simple work-related tasks, then … nothing."</p><p>Martin nodded, noting this down. "Was that why you were in a coma? The head injury?"</p><p>"Perhaps?" Jon had a folder full of medical documents from his time in hospital, and he showed them to Martin now, for all they made any sense. "These are all the records I could obtain from my hospital stay, although they haven’t revealed much so far."</p><p>Martin picked up the folder and paged through it; occasionally he paused to read something, brows knit, lips moving slightly. "It says your respiration, CBC, and blood pressure were normal on admission," he said after a moment. "And the EEG and CT scan were basically normal, too, so there wasn't a proper brain injury … hell, they even tested your sugar and A1C."</p><p>"I … don't know what that means," Jon admitted, abruptly wrong-footed.</p><p>"Oh! Sorry." Martin shut the folder abruptly. "Just. My mum has a lot of, er, problems. And it's just been me and her for a long time, so I got good at reading medical charts and stuff."</p><p>"That's impressive," Jon said, and meant it, which just caused Martin to go very red in the face. "I've never — I don't like hospitals."</p><p>"Yeah, I remember," Martin muttered. "This says you were out for ten days?"</p><p>Jon nodded. "And spent another week before I was alert enough to be sent home. I suppose they might've let me go earlier if I'd been living with someone at the time…"</p><p>"That's still really fast," Martin pointed out. "People don't just lie in a coma for ten days without something really, properly wrong with their brain. Besides, you know, the unconsciousness. But what you're describing sounds like a plain concussion, I think?"</p><p>"People also don't spend hours in a building full of lethal amounts of CO2 and come out <em>alive</em>," Jon pointed out, toying with his teacup.</p><p>"That's the other thing," Martin said, opening up the folder again. "This has the report of the ambulance crew that brought you to King's College A&amp;E, and it says your oxygen levels were fine. They did a full arterial blood gas array in the A&amp;E, and it was fine. I mean, obviously, you wouldn't be alive if you had actually tested like someone who'd been gassed, but … either these tests were wrong, or …"</p><p>"Or something protected me from the gas," Jon completed. "Which was Gertrude's theory."</p><p>Martin nodded, and scribbled a few notes into his book. "How'd you find her, anyway? She seems pretty good at keeping a low profile."</p><p>"Persistence and dumb luck, I suppose." Jon found it hard to look Martin in the eye for this part; he toyed with his teacup instead. "I was … I didn't handle it well. Any of it. I couldn't go back to the Institute, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I tried to get copies of the police reports, I read obsessively through the final report of the inquest, I … didn't sleep much. Somewhere I found photographs of the front desk register, and I noticed Gerry had signed in multiple times. That led me to the shop, and, well…"</p><p>"Right." Martin chewed absently on the end of his pen for a moment. "I don't think I fully got why Gertrude … did the thing. To the archives, you know."</p><p>Jon shrugged. "She only told me it was a place of power for one of them. The Entities, I mean. They can latch onto a place, or an object, sometimes even a person, that channels them into the world."</p><p>Martin looked a bit ill. "A person like Prentiss."</p><p>"Exactly so." Jon didn't particularly want to dwell on Prentiss, though, so he pushed on. "The Institute, or at least the Archives, belonged to the Beholding.” At Martin’s quizzical look, he rushed to explain. “It's the fear of being watched or exposed, paranoia, the need to know something even if it hurts. All those statements, or at least the real ones — the ones about encounters with the Entities — were feeding back into the Beholding. So Gertrude destroyed them, to break its connection to the place."</p><p>"Christ." Martin set his pen down and rubbed his eyes. "And we were all … what, helping it? Feeding it? Every time we sent a file down there?"</p><p>Jon hadn't actually considered that, and it did give him an uneasy shiver, to think they'd all been unwittingly serving some incomprehensible manifestation of fear — but he pushed the thought out of his mind. "Doesn't matter. It's gone. It took decades to build that archive — it included Jonah Magnus's own correspondence, for god's sake. It's not going to be re-built in our lifetimes."</p><p>“Right, so hang on,” said Martin, glancing down at his notebook. “So we’ve got — Gertrude said whatever controlled that diving suit, it was connected to the Vast, and then you said the Beholding— " He wrote something down quickly. “I’m guessing the Vast is, like, big stuff.” Realizing how juvenile that sounded, Martin flushed. “Er, I mean, like wide-open spaces. Agoraphobia, sort of? Doesn’t explain why it went for a diving suit, exactly, but—”</p><p>“The ocean,” Jon prompted, and Martin nodded emphatically. “Right. Right, okay, I think I get it. So whatever happened to Jane Prentiss, that was, uh, what, fear of bugs?”</p><p>“Corruption, to be more specific,” supplied Jon. “Rot, decomposition, disease, that sort of thing.” He chewed his lip briefly, thinking. “We don’t actually— It’s not always this easy to <em>define</em> what makes something, er, <em>scary</em>, but Gertrude goes by a shorthand of categories. I admit it’s helpful to apply some sort of logic to the situation.” He cleared his throat. “I can give you the list; they’re called Smirke’s Fourteen.”</p><p>“Wait, like Robert Smirke?” Martin looked up after copying it down as his page heading.</p><p>Jon raised an eyebrow. “Er, yeah. How did you—"</p><p>Martin waved his pen. “Just a hunch. Let’s have the list, it sounds important.” Jon watched him circle Smirke’s name and jot a quick note, which Jon read upside down: <em>ASK TIM WTF?</em></p><p>He didn’t press, only listed out the fourteen categories, pausing between each one to give Martin time to write, or ask questions, which he had fewer of than Jon expected. On a whole, he had adjusted a lot faster to this entire business than Jon had when he first found out -- although Jon could hardly call himself <em>adaptable</em>, so perhaps that made sense for Martin, who had worked so long at the Institute, immersed in the possibility of it. He seemed comforted by the idea that his experience could be qualified, which Jon understood. It was a relief to be able to describe things, explain them in terms other than <em>crazy, unbelievable, absolutely barking mad.</em></p><p>“Okay,” said Martin, running the tip of his pen down the list, then fixing Jon with a look of scrutiny. “You said Gertrude’s theory was that <em>something</em> protected you from the CO2. And then you said these, er, cosmic powers, they can latch onto <em>people,</em> so— Is that what you meant when you said you were marked? Because… You’re not exactly <em>scary,</em> Jon. Or particularly…” He wiggled his fingers. “Supernatural.”</p><p>Jon’s mouth went suddenly dry, and he took a quick sip of his lukewarm tea. “I — Yes, well, I don’t have. <em>Worms</em> living in me, or, anything of that, that nasty sort.” He glanced up at Martin, who had sat up much straighter in his seat.</p><p>“... But?”</p><p>“But <em>nothing,</em> really, nothing conclusive, only—” Jon halted, wracking his brain for the best way to explain. He hadn’t even mentioned this to Gerry before. “I just… Sometimes, lately, I — I <em>know</em> things. That I shouldn’t. Logically.” He picked at one of his nails, aware of Martin’s eyes on him. “I’m sure it sounds like nonsense.”</p><p>“After everything you’ve told me?” Martin shook his head, bewildered. “Honestly, Jon, I’ll probably never dismiss <em>anything</em> as nonsense again.”</p><p>“Well all right, that’s fair,” Jon muttered. “Still, it’s not as if — I can’t imagine how it could possibly connect to my surviving the fire, it has nothing to do with — I’m not impervious to injury,” he gestured down at his leg, which he’d had to straighten out under the table when it started to ache. “<em>Clearly.</em>”</p><p>“Right.” Martin grimaced mildly in sympathy. “So it’s random, you just <em>know</em> things? Relevant things, or—?”</p><p>Jon considered this. “Yes, I suppose they’re relevant to whatever I’m doing, or, er.” He paused. “Who I’m talking to.”</p><p>Martin raised an eyebrow. "So what do you know about me?"</p><p>"I can't exactly <em>control </em>it."</p><p>"Have you tried?"</p><p><em>"No." </em>Martin recoiled from the table slightly; someone using a laptop at another table glanced up. Jon took a deep breath, and tried again. "I don't — I try not to think about it, mostly. But sometimes it just — comes to me. Whether I like it or not."</p><p>"...yeah, that makes sense." Martin looked back at his list of Smirke's 14. "So, knowing things, whether you like it or not … is almost exactly how you just described the Beholding."</p><p>"Except that makes no sense," Jon insisted. "I had no special, singular connection to the Institute. I was just another researcher. Why would the Eye single me out, and let everyone else … ?"</p><p>Martin nodded, drawing a series of Xs next to <em>Beholding/Eye </em>on his list. "Yeah, you've got a point. But … I mean … is it always, I don't know, violent things? Or is it sometimes just … stuff?"</p><p>"It's usually …" Jon groped for words, and settled on, "actionable. So yes, often it involves danger, or the avoidance thereof. But sometimes it's also just … knowing the exact next step. Recognizing or realizing something without prompting. Stumbling into a bit of good luck that doesn't feel like luck at all."</p><p>"Does it —" Martin hesitated. "Does it hurt? Is that why you don't—why it bothers you?"</p><p>Jon sighed. "It bothers me because it's a mark of an eldritch monstrosity, Martin. If it just gave me migraines, I think I could cope with that."</p><p>"Yeah, okay." He gnawed on his pen a bit more. "So you haven't … experimented with it at all?"</p><p>Jon had just <em>said </em>that, but Martin had to be emphasizing it for a reason. "What are you getting at?" he asked warily.</p><p>"I think it would help narrow down this <em>marking </em>thing if we, er, put you through your paces?" He flinched. "Not like a horse, I mean! I'm not calling you a horse. Just like — testing the limits of what you can know. It would at least narrow down the options, wouldn't it?"</p><p>Jon's instinctive reaction was to refuse. He didn't want to experiment with it, he didn't want to control it, he didn't want anything to do with it. But Martin was right about one thing, which is that these — insights, warnings, whatever, were the only clue he had to what had saved his life. And if he ever wanted to be free of it (if he even <em>could </em>be) then he needed to be able to name it.</p><p>"What do you suggest?" he asked, ultimately.</p><p>Martin shrugged. "Dunno? We'll have to brainstorm on that … I'll see what's in the library on, what, ESP? Prophetic visions?" Jon's opinion of that must've shown on his face; Martin cracked a smile, and then suddenly devolved into giggles.</p><p>Jon looked into his teacup, trying to maintain some dignity. "Do whatever you think is best, I suppose."</p><p>"Sorry," Martin gasped out. "Sorry, I just — your face — I swear I'm not laughing at you, I just —"</p><p>Just what, he couldn't seem to get out; he was smiling widely, eyes shining, astonishingly relaxed considering the topic of conversation. It reminded Jon suddenly, sharply, of the Portuguese restaurant, before the diving suit, before everything went to shit, and that realization came with a tightness in his throat and an irrational urge to reach over the table and take Martin's hand.</p><p>He stood up, instead, as quickly as he could, and was rewarded with a thrill of pain up his leg. "I have to," he stuttered, "I have to go now."</p><p>"You — okay?" Martin's smile had evaporated, and he looked worried. "Is something — did I say something wrong, or—"</p><p>"No, no." Jon busied himself with his wallet, digging around desperately for cash. "It's not — I just — I told Gerry I was going after a, a Flesh … thing, and I should get going before the park closes."</p><p>Martin frowned. "Are you sure? With your leg and all?"</p><p>"I'll be fine," Jon said. He ended up dropping a tenner on the table, far too much for splitting a pot of tea, but it was all he had. "For the tea. I — I'll be in touch."</p><p>"Okay. Well — be careful."</p><p>Jon successfully avoided thinking about it again until very late that night, on the bus back to Morden. He'd killed the Flesh-fox-thing and burned the remains, except for one of the heads, and wrapped up the bite on his hand in sticking plasters until he could get home to disinfect it. But he caught himself dwelling, not on potential abscesses, or whether people could tell he had a severed head in the shopping bag at his feet, but on Martin, laughing at him in the middle of the cafe.</p><p>"Fuck," he said out loud, and buried his head in his bloodied hands.</p><p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Something of Gods and Monsters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Melanie King makes a statement. Sasha goes spelunking.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim's office was empty on a Monday morning, which was starting to feel worrisomely typical. Martin's jacket hung on an empty chair; he'd said something about library research the last time Tim talked to him, which had been … Thursday? The day before that? Whenever he'd asked to borrow half of Tim's books on Robert Smirke. Sasha hadn't even left a jacket, meaning Tim had no idea if she was even in the building or … someplace else. He'd asked her to keep him out of her crazy bullshit, and she'd done so. He just hadn't anticipated that she'd leave him out of the rest of her life, too.</p><p>He slumped down at his desk and rubbed his eyes. He'd almost not come in that morning, if he was honest. Staring into the toothpaste-splattered sink, he'd imagined calling in, using up all his accrued vacation and sending his notice … granted, he wasn't entirely sure who'd he send it to. Maybe the director himself. Maybe he'd send it to Rosie along with a nice bouquet. It was just a fantasy, not a realistic plan — he didn't have the savings, didn't even have a properly updated CV to send out — but Christ, it was appealing. </p><p>He'd only come to the Institute to get answers, after all, and he'd fucking gotten them, hadn't he?</p><p>His desk phone rang. Tim told himself he couldn't just ignore it, but it still felt like effort to pick up the handset. "Tim Stoker's desk."</p><p><em>"Tim? It's Rosie at reception." </em>As if he'd really mistake her voice. <em>"I've got a visitor here who'd like to give a statement, and I was wondering if you were free to talk to her?"</em></p><p>Now that was a novelty; Tim couldn't remember the last time they'd had an actual new statement come in. And he wasn't so far gone that he'd start shirking, not with the skeleton staff they were operating with. "Sure," he said, opening his laptop one-handed. "Send her over."</p><p>By the time he'd dug up a statement form (there were a few, mostly creased, in the bottom drawer of Martin's desk) the visitor had arrived at the office door. She was a small, skinny woman, and looked like just being in the Institute was giving her heartburn; there was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn't quite place it. "Hi, I was told this is Tim Stoker's office…?"</p><p>"Well, I hope so, because that's me." Tim offered her a handshake, but she only took it reluctantly. "And you are…?"</p><p>"Melanie King."</p><p>There it was. "Melanie King from YouTube?" he asked, letting go of her hand.</p><p>She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'm surprised anyone <em>here </em>would be familiar with my show."</p><p>"Well," Tim said, trying for charming, "it pays to keep up with the competition, y'know?"</p><p>Melanie snorted contemptuously. "You are <em>not </em>our competition."</p><p><em>Delightful,</em> he thought, keeping the smile on with practiced ease. Maybe he should've shoved this one off on someone else. "Suit yourself," he said, and pushed the cover sheet in her direction. "If you could fill that out with your details, please — would you prefer to give your statement orally, or in writing?"</p><p>"If I'd wanted to give it in writing, I'd have sent an email, wouldn't I?" she snapped.</p><p>Tim bit his tongue, literally and metaphorically, and dug his phone out of his jacket. He did a brief test recording, just to make sure there wasn't too much background noise; Melanie rolled her eyes at him. "All right. Tim Stoker, recording at the Magnus Institute, London, 17 April 2016. Statement of Melanie King, given direct."</p><p>"Is that it?" she asked, interrupting him. "You're just going to use your phone?"</p><p>"Would you like me to go hunt down a tape recorder?" Tim asked painstakingly, clinging to the last vestiges of his professionalism.</p><p>She cringed like he'd suggested relaying her story into a conch shell. "Jesus, what is this, the Eighties? Why did I even bother to come here?"</p><p>Ah, there it went: His last fuck to give. "You know, that's a really great question. 'Cause if you're just here to bitch about our methods, you can do that in an email, too."</p><p>For a moment, Melanie squirmed in place, clutching her purse like she just might actually leave. Then she sighed. "No. I came here to give a statement." Pause. "Not that I really expect it to do any good, but ... "</p><p>"But what?" Tim snapped, folding his arms across his chest.</p><p>"But I don't think anyone else is going to believe me."</p><p>Tim started a fresh recording in the app and set it on the desk between them. "Ahem. Tim Stoker, recording at the Magnus Institute, London, 17 April 2016. Statement of Melanie King, given direct."</p><p>She proceeded to tell him about a shoot the year before, at Cambridge Military Hospital — halting, at first, and awkward, and he had to keep interrupting with clarifying questions at the beginning. But at some point she hit a groove, or something; at some point Tim could only listen with growing horror as she talked about an unseen, malevolent presence in the darkness, and a woman who peeled her own skin like wallpaper and stapled it back into place.</p><p>"...The episode came out okay, in the end though," Melanie finished, "though I didn’t include anything about what I saw that night."</p><p>Tim shook himself out of his own horrified stupor as she trailed off. "Right. Erm. You said there was video?"</p><p>She nodded. "Yeah, I’ve emailed this place a copy, but watching it back, the recording is so distorted that you can’t really make anything out."</p><p>Gerard and Jon had said something about monsters being hard to document. Breaking the laws of physics and stuff. Tim felt a little sick. "Okay. I … please don't take this the wrong way, but I have to ask this. You're absolutely sure about what you saw?"</p><p>"I wouldn't have come <em>here </em>if I wasn't," she snapped.</p><p>He raised a hand. "Okay. Okay. I just … fuck."</p><p>She frowned, looking like she was perhaps half a step from storming out of the office entirely. "Are you feeling all right?"</p><p>"No," Tim said, then cursed himself. Fucking professionalism, Stoker. "Sorry. I just … what you described … reminded me of something."</p><p>"Some other statement?" she asked dubiously.</p><p>"Something I saw." Not that this Sarah Baldwin was anything like Grimaldi, or the Dancer. Not really. But they were all things that took their skin on and off like clothing, and if there was any possible connection there...</p><p>Melanie's voice went strangely tentative. "Does that mean you believe me?" </p><p>Tim swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."</p><p>She sagged; that was the only word for how all the tension went out of her spine and shoulders. Tim realized that at least part of the attitude had been defensiveness, a pre-emptive strike on anyone who would doubt or mock her, and it made him forgive her just a little. "So what happens next?" she asked.</p><p>"Oh. Erm. We'll look into things, confirm the details," Tim stuttered, "see what we can find. You said you haven't seen or spoken to Baldwin since that shoot?"</p><p>"I mean, I haven't exactly tried," she admitted. "I wasn't … either I can't get hold of her again or I can, you know, and I'm not sure which would be worse?" </p><p>Yeah. Tim could relate. "So I'll look into that. In the meantime … I don't know. If anyone else from your team wants to come in and give their own statement—"</p><p>"Ah, yeah," Melanie said, cringing again. "That's … I don't think that's going to happen."</p><p>"They didn't see anything?"</p><p>She bit her lip, and then admitted, "The show's on a bit of a hiatus. Has been for a couple months."</p><p>Tim glanced around the empty office. "I know how that is."</p><p>"Yeah, are you — I wasn't even sure this place was still open," Melanie confessed. "It's not just you and the receptionist, is it?"</p><p>"It's not," Tim assured her, even if it sometimes felt that way. "I take it you heard about the fire?"</p><p>"Everybody heard about the fire," she said. "After that leak in the 90s, it was the most interesting thing to ever happen to this place." Then she flinched, as if she'd only realized what a shitty thing that was to say once it was already out of her mouth. "Sorry."</p><p>"You're not wrong," Tim muttered. It finally occurred to him to stop the recording app. "Anyway, I'll get this transcribed, and be in touch if I find anything."</p><p>"Thanks," Melanie said, and even seemed to mean it. </p><p>He got himself a coffee from the canteen before he sat down to start the transcription, and made some small talk with Rosie on the way just because he could. When he finally felt ready to face the story again, he shifted his earbuds from his laptop to his phone, and tried to play back the audio file. </p><p>It was twenty-four minutes of solid static.</p>
<hr/><p>It was nearly a month before Sasha tried the tunnels a second time. Well, tried them <em>properly, </em>at least. She kept an eye on the door on Esterbrooke Street, sometimes cutting over that direction on her way to work in the mornings, just to see if anyone would do anything about the broken lock and bolt. Eventually a new hasp and a padlock appeared, which suggested that the building's owner wanted to keep the door locked but wasn't particularly fussed with how. </p><p>Sasha picked that lock, under cover of darkness, a few days later; she replaced it with an identical one she'd bought online. When her lock wasn't removed, she concluded that nobody was actively using the door for anything. Which meant she could (probably) go in and out freely. </p><p>In the meantime, she did what she was best at, which was research. As it turned out, the Institute — actually, the whole area around the Institute, including the Tate and the art college — was the former site of Millbank Prison; you could still sort of make out the shape of its outer wall if you looked at a street map. Esterbrooke Street technically was beyond that border, but what was the point of secret tunnels under a prison if they didn't lead <em>out </em>of said prison? </p><p>Perhaps more to the point: Gertrude had said that the Powers could use places as conduits, as well as people, if they resonated with the right sort of fear. And Sasha couldn't think of many places more obviously steeped in fear than a notorious prison. Millbank had been torn down over a century ago, but its physical footprint remained, in the streets and in the tunnels below them. What sort of metaphysical footprint might it have left behind...? </p><p>Once again, she debated the pros and cons of looping Tim in, given Smirke's connection to Millbank. If anything could tempt him to help, it was probably Smirke, and he was the closest thing she knew to an expert. Then again, she might have to explain how she'd found the tunnels, and she couldn't imagine that going over very well.</p><p>(She hadn't seen or heard from Michael again, and though part of her was tremendously relieved, another part <em>itched </em>with more questions — why her? Why now? What did the tunnels have to do with Gertrude, if anything? She supposed she could try Gertrude herself again, but would it really be worth the effort? Questions upon questions, and no answers except the ones Sasha dug up herself. Typical.)</p><p>To her surprise, though, Tim reached out to her first — even brought her her favorite latte, which was a surefire tell that he was trying to bribe her. "Hey, Sash," he said, more casual than he'd been with her in over a month. "Long time no see."</p><p>"I could say the same about you," she said, carefully neutral. She did take the latte, though. </p><p>He didn't take the bait, for once. "Got a strictly work-related question for you, if you've got the time."</p><p>Work, right. The thing they were still allegedly being paid to do, not that anyone had seemed to notice Sasha's suddenly plunging productivity. "I'm all ears," she said.</p><p>"I'm trying to track down a person mentioned in a statement," Tim explained. "Name of Sarah Baldwin. I have an address and mobile number for her, but neither of them is turning up any leads — the phone might be a burner. Could you maybe have your wicked way with a couple of databases for me, see if you can track her down?"</p><p>An address and phone number were more than they usually had, given the scraps of statements rescued from the fire, and Tim wasn't exactly a slouch when it came to his own data gathering, so if he was asking for her help, he'd really run out of leads. "What do I get in return?" she asked.</p><p>He grinned awkwardly. "My profoundest thanks and appreciation?"</p><p>She sipped the latte. "How about your notes on Robert Smirke?"</p><p>Instantly, Tim's face fell. "What do you need those for?"</p><p>"Why do you need to find Sarah Baldwin?"</p><p>"Mine is work related."</p><p>"So's mine," she said, straight-faced.</p><p>Tim gnawed his lower lip a bit, then sighed. "Fine. Cash on delivery, though."</p><p>"I dunno, Tim, that's a pretty unremarkable name…"</p><p>"Half and half," he offered instead. "Martin's got most of my books, anyway, but I can xerox the rest when Rosie's not looking."</p><p>Sasha offered him a hand, and they shook on it. It almost felt … normal, actually. Though she tucked away that bit about Martin's interest in Smirke for later. He'd moved out of the bookshop, allegedly, but Sasha was less and less prepared to believe in coincidences. </p><p>Putting together a file of various Sarah Baldwins wasn't actually that difficult, though since Tim wouldn't give her a date range to do on, she ended up including rather more deceased examples than probably necessary. In return, she got to dig through a massive binder, part grainy second-generation photocopies and part Tim's own handwritten notes, on Smirke architecture across England and the hauntings associated therewith. </p><p>Nothing about the prison, which was torn down decades after Smirke's death, and certainly nothing about the Institute itself. But plenty about construction layered deep in the earth, buried under other things, a London below London that could hide nearly anything…</p><p>And if she was going to find out what the tunnel under Esterbrooke Street was hiding, she needed to actually go back down.</p><p>She prepared in stages, acquiring gear slowly: LED lights to fix near the entrance, so she wouldn't lose her way again. A compass, a small level, measuring tape — all the things she'd need to chart the site accurately, assuming it could be charted. She thought about bringing chalk, to mark her trail, but the tunnels had to be below water level and she didn't want to risk markings being washed away by damp. (Or anything else, for that matter). She bought lumber crayons, instead, and a bunch of those crackable glow sticks that would last for hours. </p><p>She bought the largest, heaviest torch she could find, and hoped that she wouldn't need it for anything but a source of light. And a head lamp, just to be sure.</p><p>Finally she admitted to herself that she was stalling. Tim's words kept coming back to mind: <em>You could do everything right, take every precaution, and still get killed. </em>At a certain point, she needed to just knuckle down and <em>do </em>it, plunge off the map — and if there were dragons, well, she'd better hope she could get a good swing at them with the torch.  </p><p>She chose the last Friday in April for her attempt; it was the start of a long weekend, so she hoped nobody would question her bringing a loaded rucksack to work. Not that she had to bother; Tim was engrossed in his computer almost all day, and Martin was hardly there, returning to his desk just before five with a load of books on … telepathy?</p><p>"Big plans for the weekend?" Sasha asked him as he tried to stuff too many volumes into his satchel at once.</p><p>"Oh, erm, nothing specific," Martin muttered. "Might hang out with Jon a bit?"</p><p>Tim raised his head. "What does a professional monster hunter do on a bank holiday, anyway?"</p><p>"Same things the rest of us do, I suppose," Martin said, with the stilted intonation that meant he was probably lying. Or at the very least, not telling the whole truth. "What about you two? Any plans?"</p><p>"Nah," Tim said. "Just catching up on some reading."</p><p>The problem with Tim was that she'd never been able to tell when he was telling the whole truth and when he wasn't. At least she knew <em>he </em>wasn't going to get himself in any trouble with monsters. "I was planning to get out of London for a bit," she said, patting the side of her rucksack. "Booked a B&amp;B on the South Downs."</p><p>Tim raised an eyebrow at her. "That sounds … outside," he said. "Are you feeling all right?"</p><p>"Everyone needs a break sometimes, Tim," Martin said, so Sasha didn't have to. "I think it sounds lovely."</p><p>"Thank you, Martin," she said. "And Tim, I didn't say I was planning to <em>leave </em>the B&amp;B. Just need a change of scenery." </p><p>She only realized later that her cover story was a liability; it provided an excuse for the rucksack, and an explanation if they couldn't reach her by phone, but it also meant they wouldn't notice anything was amiss until Tuesday at the earliest. She considered setting up some kind of dead man's switch, an email or something that would fire off in case she didn't come back up by a certain time … but she didn't want to wed herself to a particular timetable, and the chances of that backfiring were tremendously high. </p><p>What the boys didn't know wouldn't hurt them, she decided. She'd just have to hope it wouldn't hurt her, either. </p><p>She left the Institute at the usual time and walked halfway up Vauxhall Bridge Road, then doubled back to the door. No one had tampered with her padlock. When she tapped the LED lights on, the illumination didn't quite reach the bottom of the stairs. </p><p>"There are answers down there," she said aloud, thumbing her torch on. "So go get them."</p><p>The first few meters of tunnel were familiar enough by now, though she hadn't dared venture out of sight of the LED lights after the first unnerving incident. She counted off her steps and stopped often to make notes on gridded paper. For a long stretch, the tunnel was the same close-fitted gray stone; then it changed abruptly, becoming a vaulted arch of rectangular bricks, although — she peered closer — it wasn't <em>actually </em>brickwork. Just the same stone, cut and mortared together differently. She considered trying to collect a sample, but it wasn't like she'd brought tools for that, and anyway, where would she go to get it tested? What would she get it tested for?</p><p>The tunnels kept changing as she explored, not just in construction but dimensions — some wide and low, some low and narrow, some large enough to drive a lorry through and some twice her height but too narrow for two people to walk abreast. A few places seemed almost like naturally-occuring caves, albeit with the floors worked smooth; she doubted there was anything natural about them, though, if only because London stood on clay, not hard gray stone. Occasionally she found chambers, and sometimes doors, and some of the doors even led into the chambers; others were mounted flush against the walls, or were otherwise locked or barred too securely for her to get past. </p><p>It wasn't exactly a maze; a maze was <em>designed. </em>This was too chaotic, too strange, and something about the meandering paths struck her as almost organic. Twisted. Maybe even <em>distorted. </em>(Like Michael was distorted, though? Or something else? She couldn't say.)</p><p>The first time she passed a staircase, she stopped and examined it; it was a spiral in construction, steep, and it terminated against an implacable stone roof with no sign of a hatch or exit. She couldn't see how far down it went. It reminded her of the stairs in castles, the old ones that were built for war — so narrow you'd have to take them one at a time, and tightly coiled so you couldn't get your sword out and attack. These stairs descended clockwise, as if the builders expected an attack from above. </p><p>Part of Sasha itched to explore downwards, but she'd been following a system so far — taking every right turn and only right turns. It had led her in circles a few times, but she was filling in the gridded paper without too much dodgy geometry. Suddenly diving down a staircase would disrupt that.</p><p>"Stick to the plan," she said out loud, and after hours of walking in silence, the sound of her own voice echoing through the chilly, damp air was almost startling. She made a note of the stairs on her hand-drawn map, and carried on. </p><p>The next staircase appeared on her right. Almost like something <em>knew. </em></p><p>Sasha stopped to drink some water and consider it. She had been walking for hours by now, and her map covered a space maybe a quarter mile on each side? And she'd been leaving blazons for herself, arrows drawn in crayon and grid references to match back to the map. She could find her way back to the stairs another time. She could find anything down here another time … provided the tunnels didn't move once her back was turned. But if <em>that </em>was a problem, then she might never find her way out. </p><p>How deep could the stairs even go? They'd have to hit the water table eventually, right?</p><p>Very cautiously, Sasha stepped into the steep, winding stairs; she paused to leave a particularly bold arrow pointing out. She told herself she wasn't going to explore any lower levels, not today, just try to find out how deep the maze went. She counted off the doorways she passed, checking against her compass to confirm they came after a full 360-degree turn. One, two, three, four—</p><p>A movement, at the very edge of her torch light. </p><p>Sasha froze, at first, not sure if her eyes were tricking her. She'd been alone for hours, with no sign of life inside the tunnels around her — there had been places where pipes or wiring protruded, artefacts of the buildings above, but these were as silent and still as the stones they passed through. There hadn't even been signs of damp. And she wasn't supposed to leave the stairs, she wasn't—</p><p>—but when she stepped out to investigate the movement, her torch fell on a dusty wine bottle jammed into the corner of a room. A plain, green glass wine bottle, with the label almost ruined by damp, though when she rolled it over with her foot she could make out the year <em>2003. </em>After miles and miles of shifting stone corridors that probably dated back to the Regency era, it was an incongruous bit of miscellany to find. Incongruous, and deeply human, in a way Michael's flowers and coffee hadn't been. </p><p>"Hello?" Sasha called down the passage, as loud as she dared, but there was no response.</p><p>She kept moving forward, steadily, cautiously; the tunnels here shifted unpredictably between smooth, naturalistic ripples and sharp, rigid angles. Almost too rigid. Something about them suddenly made her think of that line, what was it, Shirley Jackson? <em>Nothing can exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality….</em></p><p>She stopped, as much to get a grip on herself as to check her compass and her watch. She'd neglected to count her paces, but she should at least try to keep track of time, how many minutes it would take to walk back to the stairs. There hadn't been any more rubbish, or if there had been she hadn't noticed it. Maybe she'd made a mistake, or had been down in the dark so long that she was seeing things—</p><p>When she glanced up, the corridor that had stretched out in front of her was now a blunt dead end. <em>That </em>wasn't a mistake. </p><p>Heart pounding, Sasha turned back to the wall where she'd been about to make a note for her next trip down. Was it closer than it had been? She stepped away from it, and found the opposite wall of the corridor hard against her back, when before it had been at least ten feet wide. The way she'd come, the direction that led to the stairs, was still open, but when she turned her head the other way the dead end that had materialized was suddenly just an arm's length away. <em>It's when you're not looking, </em>she realized, feeling sick. The walls were moving when she looked away from them — getting closer — narrower —-</p><p>Sasha stood completely still and for several seconds there was silence. Just her breath, rasping now off stone that was inches from the tip of her nose. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, she heard a single word, clear as day: </p><p>“Leave.”</p><p>It was spoken simply, without intonation or threat. Just a command. A low-pitched voice, but a <em>human </em>voice, or at least something close enough to human to pass as one. (Like Michael passed, when it wanted to, she thought with a shiver.)</p><p>Sasha raised her chin, and gripped her torch with both hands. "No."</p><p>For a moment, the voice did not respond. The walls didn't move, though that might've been because Sasha was looking at them, wasn't even blinking, even as her eyes started to itch and prickle from the strain. She'd never been claustrophobic before but she could suddenly, <em>viscerally </em>understand the basis for it.</p><p>"You are not welcome here." The voice was definitely male, she decided, and perhaps she was fooling herself, but it sounded less vacantly calm. And closer.</p><p>"I said no," Sasha snapped back. "What right have you got to order me about?"</p><p>"I could crush you," the voice said. Not in a threatening way, thought, more … confused.</p><p>Sasha seized on that. "You could, but you're not. Why not? You just want me scared? Want a tasty little monster snack before you kill me, is that it?"</p><p>The wall in front of her suddenly … wasn't. </p><p>Her eyes refused to process what actually happened, space and stone warping in front of her like a glitchy video game. With a faint <em>whoosh</em> of displaced air, there was suddenly a passage in front of her; she gaped, for a moment, before common sense kicked in and she raised her torch. </p><p>At the end of the passage, just barely in sight, stood a man. Just a normal, unremarkable man — old, white, skinny. He had a slim book in one hand, and he was holding a tiny pen light in the other to read it by. </p><p>He closed the book with a snap. "Monster I may be, but only in the way any man can be monstrous. I have no intention of killing you."</p><p>Sasha had just been thinking out loud, and it took a moment to gather her scattered thoughts. "Could've fooled me," she blustered, as she caught her breath. </p><p>The man picked up a lantern — an electric one, the kind sold for camping. Sasha had considered bringing a very similar model down here, but she'd judged it too bulky to carry. When he switched it on, dim yellow light flooded the passage. "There are a great many people who want to harm me," he said softly. "But I don't think you're one of them, are you?"</p><p>"I don't even know who you are!"</p><p>"Call me — George." He smiled, though it looked like an expression he wasn't used to making. Perhaps he'd meant it to be reassuring, but it came off more like <em>manic.</em></p><p>Sasha considered running away — or perhaps running at him. He didn't look like he could put up much of a fight. Then again, he hadn't needed to, had he? "Sasha," she said, and if he wanted her second name he could share his. "How did you rearrange the walls?"</p><p>He raised the book at her without opening it. "An unexpurgated copy of Ruskin's <em>The Seven Lamps of Architecture. </em>Quite dangerous if read in its entirety, but I've found short passages interact with Smirke's buildings in predictable, if unusual ways."</p><p>"You mean it's a Leitner?" She'd worked with a couple of Leitners back in Artefact Storage, before she transferred out, and at least one book that didn't have the Leitner plate but certainly <em>acted </em>like one, with a tendency to ooze foul-smelling fluids on the unwary. </p><p>George cringed a bit. "I — I've heard them called that, yes. Though the books are far older than that library."</p><p>Sasha's mind raced — here was a man who knew about Leitners, who knew enough about them to <em>use </em>one, which was more than the crew in Artefact Storage had ever worked out. Who knew about Smirke, likely more than Tim did. Who had reacted to her rambling about fear-eating monsters like he knew exactly what she meant—</p><p>"Who are you hiding from down here?" she asked, warily stepped closer. </p><p>"The list would only bore you, assuming you even believed it." He stuffed the book back into the pocket of his shabby coat. "I'm curious as to what brings a young woman like yourself down here, though."</p><p>"I found a tunnel and I started exploring," Sasha said. No need to bring Michael into it, assuming he was one of the things George was hiding from. Or maybe it was Gertrude he was trying to avoid…?</p><p>"You don't strike me as one of those <em>urb-ex </em>people, though." He pronounced <em>urbex </em>as if it was a foreign word, or perhaps some sort of distasteful insect.</p><p>Sasha shrugged. "I was curious."</p><p>He cocked an eyebrow, and gave her an assessing look. "You know something of gods and monsters, though. Enough to accuse me, at least, which was a reasonable mistake to make."</p><p>She hadn't missed the <em>young woman </em>comment, and she'd been in academia long enough to recognize negging when she heard it. The fact that it was coming from some sort of tunnel-dwelling octogenarian with a magic book didn't change the intent. "If you have so many enemies, why reveal yourself to me?"</p><p>That terrible, unpracticed smile again. "You remind me of someone, I suppose."</p><p>Oh, Christ. Sasha adjusted her grip on the torch, not that George seemed to notice. Maybe she could work with this, though. "Can I ask you a question?" she asked, hoping she didn't come off as <em>too </em>vulnerable. </p><p>George smiled that creepy smile again. "I cannot promise to answer, but go on."</p><p>"These tunnels … you said they were built by Smirke? Are they part of Millbank Prison?"</p><p>"Not officially, no," he said. "Though I believe they were laid around the same time. They reach far beyond the bounds of Millbank, and far below it."</p><p>"How far?"</p><p>"Farther than even I have explored, and I have been down here a very long time."</p><p>"What are they for?"</p><p>George hesitated, and Sasha cursed herself for pressing too far. "I think that's enough questions for now," he said.</p><p>"For now?" she asked, wary.</p><p>He pulled the book out of his pocket again, and Sasha's heart crashed against her chest. "I might have more answers for you later, if you wish to come back. But not tonight, I think."</p><p>"How am I supposed to find you again?" she blurted, fully aware that she was setting herself up for some kind of horrifying kidnapping scenario.</p><p>But as George held the lantern up to the book, he simply said, "If you find your way back here, I'll find you." And then he looked down at the page, and the space between them did that horrible dance again, and Sasha was staring at a solid stone wall. </p><p>She backed away from it, and kept her eyes on until she had made it all the way back to the stairs.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Research</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gerry loans out some books. Jon and Martin get experimental. Sasha exchanges apples for answers.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>At least, Gerry considered in hindsight, the last of Jon’s old coworkers to hit up the shop chose to do so in the evening, instead of rousing him from a perfectly respectable sleep when he so rarely got any these days. Sasha had been, at least metaphorically, above his pay grade to dissuade, but from their previous dealings Gerry felt he was quite well equipped to deal with Tim. The man clearly didn’t <em>want</em> to know any more than he did already about the horror show that was his new reality.</p><p>Which was good, because while Gerry had been content to put on his headphones and ignore the knocking from downstairs, of course his bloody mother had to go and investigate. God forbid her immortal husk go without someone new to antagonize every couple of weeks.</p><p>“<em>Leave</em> it, Mum,” he hollered once he registered her gliding past his doorway towards the stairs, but by then she already had the door open.</p><p>“Can I help you, young man?” He heard her ask, saccharine and sharp.</p><p>Gerry tossed his headphones back on his bed and stomped down the stairs, livid. “Bloody hell, Mum, <em>you’re</em> the one who insisted on not letting customers in after dark -- Oh, Christ, it’s you.” He recognized Tim immediately; back at the diner, after they'd sprung Martin from the Corruption, Tim had offered to let him stay at his place with full knowledge that the man had a target on his back from a worm-infested zombie. Gerry had wondered, at the time, what it might be like to have a friend like that.</p><p>Tim didn’t look especially friendly now; in fact, he had the air of a triathlon swimmer forcing himself to wade too quickly into freezing cold water. “So this is your mum, huh?” He said, glancing between Gerry and Mary. “Well that sort of explains this whole, situation.” Tim gestured vaguely up and down in Gerry’s direction.</p><p>Gerry raised one pierced eyebrow, an expression he knew he’d picked up from Jon. “Wow. Great to see you again, mate, absolutely charmed. Let me guess, you’ve come looking after a souvenir jug of worm ashes? Sorry to disappoint, but Martin’s got the only one. Guess you’d better pop off.”</p><p>Tim just responded with an irritated grunt at first, but didn’t move, as if he’d <em>like</em> to follow Gerry’s suggestion by all means, but it just wasn’t in the cards.</p><p>Gerry sighed. “Look, do you need another exterminator, or what?”</p><p>“No. Looking for some books, actually.” Tim shoved both hands into his pockets.</p><p>Gerry gestured with an exaggerated flourish to the plaque on the door. “Shop’s hours are <em>right</em> here.”</p><p>“I read them.” Tim scowled. “It’s just that I didn’t think coming round and demanding access to stolen property was really something you did during business hours.”</p><p>“Right.” Gerry folded his arms. “If you think I’m gonna let you in with that attitude—”</p><p>“I’m not gonna rat you out or anything,” Tim insisted in a rush. “I just need to look through some stuff, if you have it. Which, I’m guessing you have it, because it’s in the library system, but it’s <em>not</em> on the shelves, and I remember why Martin came round here in the first place.” He took a breath as if to calm himself and stepped a bit closer to the threshold, lowering his voice. “Trust me, I don’t give a shit what goes missing, okay? It’s just a paycheck at this point.” Tim glanced behind him, almost like a reflex. “But if you haven’t sold it all... I need to see everything you have on circuses.”</p><p>Gerry looked up from picking off chips of his nail polish. Tim looked back at him resolutely; it didn’t look like he knew the <em>full</em> extent of what he was asking, but he was clearly determined. Turning him away at this point would more than likely create a loose cannon circling their already delicate operation with the Stranger, one that would lead back to them eventually. Gerry stood aside. “Fine. Come on up.”</p><p>Tim blinked in surprise. “W-Where’s your mum?”</p><p>Gerry looked over his shoulder; sure enough, she had disappeared. “Oh, she must have got tired,” he said.</p><p>“It’s barely eight.” Tim squinted up the staircase, scanning fruitlessly for evidence of how she could have turned around and plodded back up without him noticing, which, of course, she couldn’t have.</p><p>Gerry decided to spare them both the <em>My Mum is a Ghost</em> sitcom introduction for the time being. “You know how old ladies are,” he said. “Go on then, you’re driving up the heating bill.”</p><p>He herded Tim up the stairs and into the shopfront. Tim tried to look as if he wasn’t peering around the place curiously, with minimal success. Gerry considered for a moment, and then beckoned him through to the kitchen. “Come on, in here. You want a cup of tea or something?”</p><p>Tim looked at him like he had just sprouted yet another eye. “What?”</p><p>He shrugged. “I’m told it’s good manners. Suit yourself, though.” Patting the table as he passed, Gerry moved through towards the hall. “Have a seat there if you like. I’ll just go and get the books.”</p><p>Still bewildered, Tim nodded and watched him go, still standing. Gerry managed to turn all the way around before he rolled his eyes. For some reason, people were often shellshocked whenever he acted polite, as if they believed a cornerstone of the gothic lifestyle was being a total bastard to everyone you met.</p><p>Getrude had preserved plenty of her own research on the Drugoi Tsirk, including more than a few statements — these, Gerry wasn't about to hand over. But he did have plenty of background reading he could stand to part with — Petry's <em>Freaks and Followers, </em>O'Brien's <em>Marvellous Spiritualism and the Circus in the 19th Century, </em>Portnoy's <em>Freaks, Geeks and Strongmen. </em>He threw in Scott's <em>The Spectacular Macabre </em>and Samuels's monograph on masks, which weren't strictly circus-related, but definitely circus-adjacent. Hopefully enough to keep Tim happy and out of their hair a bit longer.</p><p>By the time he came back down, Tim had at least sat down, although he was still looking about the kitchen like he expected demons to explode out of the cupboards at any moment. "Found a few we can spare," Gerry said, setting the stack on the table. "What d'you need them for, anyway?"</p><p>"What do <em>you </em>need them for?" Tim asked, reaching for the stack. </p><p>Gerry scooted the books just out of his reach. "I asked you first."</p><p>Tim scowled. "Research. Y'know, my job?"</p><p>Interesting. He pushed the books back across the table, and Tim grabbed the whole stack, even though he could barely fit his hands around all five. (O'Brien was a wordy old shit, and Petry was in love with full-color photographic plates.) "Didn't think you lot were still taking statements," Gerry observed aloud, just to see what Tim would say.</p><p>"Neither did I." Tim flipped through the books, one after another; apparently he had the titles he wanted committed to memory. He stopped on Scott. "This one isn't from the Institute."</p><p>"Yeah, but you can borrow it," Gerry said. "Just bring it back with some gas in the tank, yeah?"</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes. "You want the rest back, or should I slip them into the returns cart when nobody's looking?"</p><p>"We're getting more use out of them here than anyone at the Institute is," Gerry observed.</p><p>"Using them for what?" Tim asked again.</p><p>Keeping a perfectly straight face, Gerry said, "Research."</p><p>Jon would've laughed at that one; Tim scowled more. "Would that be why you've misplaced the Bouissac, both Elisons, and <em>Cirque Revolutionnaire?"</em></p><p>His French was bad enough to make Gerry wince, but the fact he had all these titles memorized was something. . "You didn't ask for those."</p><p>"Well, I'm asking."</p><p>Instead of a hard no, Gerry decided to try one more fishing expedition. "Your statement, it's about a circus?" he guessed. "Creepy clowns? Pipe organ from hell?"</p><p>"No," Tim said, but there was just enough of a reaction to <em>clowns </em>that Gerry felt he was onto something. "Can I have the books or not?"</p><p>"You can have those," Gerry said. "I'm using the rest."</p><p>Tim's eyes narrowed, and Gerry could almost see the calculus going on in his head — give a little, get a little? Not that he was going to launch into the full lecture about the Unknowing at the poor bastard, but he was curious whether he'd ask.</p><p>He didn't ask. He gathered up the titles Gerry had given him and tucked them, with some difficulty, into his satchel. "Fine. Have fun with your research."</p><p>"You too," Gerry said. "Hope those help."</p><p>Tim still looked like he was expecting Gerry to spring something on him — some catch, or demand, or fucked-up surprise. But he at least said thanks before he booked it out of the shop.</p><p>As the door jingled shut, Mary materialized in the doorway. Well, at least decided to be visible for the time being. "What a rude young man," she observed.</p><p>"Oh, leave it." Gerry brushed past her, accustomed by now to the icy prickle of her ephemeral form, and headed back up to his room.</p><p>Mary, unfortunately, decided to follow him. "He could be trouble."</p><p>"He could," Gerry allowed. "But with any luck he's as much of a nerd as Jon, and those'll keep him happy for a good long while."</p><p>"And if they don't?"</p><p>Gerry flopped back onto his bed and put his headphones back on. "Then we have a problem. But I'm not keen on borrowing trouble."</p><p>Mary sniffed. "You're too much like your father."</p><p>"I wouldn't know, would I?"</p><p>She wafted out of the room, and Gerry turned his music back on, as loud as he could stand.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin ultimately suggested his flat for the first round of experiments, and Jon couldn't think of a good reason to refuse. <em>I'll even cover dinner! </em>Martin added, though upon arriving Jon realized that just meant a pizza. The sort of casual thing lots of people shared when a friend stopped by. Nothing awkward here that Jon didn't bring with him.</p><p>"Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge," Martin called as Jon selected a couple of slices. "I think I've got a couple of ciders in there if you want one?"</p><p>"Just water's fine," Jon assured him. He dabbed up some of the excess grease with a paper towel, but froze when he turned to toss the towel in the bin. A spiderweb was stretched between the lip of the bin and the corner of the wall — no, just a cobweb, no spider in sight. Not even a large one, now that he looked at it properly. Still, he tossed the greasy paper towel from a distance, just in case.</p><p>Meanwhile, Martin did grab a cider, and settled himself back on the sofa — granted, the pizza box took up most of the tiny kitchen table. "I don't, usually, but it's been a day, you know?"</p><p>Jon took the opposite end of the couch and sank into it; the springs must've been on their last legs. "Trouble at the Institute?"</p><p>Martin shrugged. "Not the whole place, just … I'm a bit worried about Sasha, to be honest. She's been missing a lot of work, and even when she's in the office she's — I dunno, distracted? I'd ask Tim about it, but he's hardly there, either — actually had somebody come to give a statement, I guess, and he's decided to give it a hundred and ten percent."</p><p>"What was the statement?" Jon asked.</p><p>"Hah — you ever heard of a YouTube show called Ghost Hunt UK?" Martin grinned around a bite of pizza.</p><p>Jon snorted. "Of course. Gerry sometimes watches that sort of thing for a laugh."</p><p>"Ouch!" Martin said, though he didn't actually sound like he cared. "Anyway, apparently one of the hosts came round to talk about something they saw on a shoot. I think Tim's gonna end up writing a book on the whole thing before he's through with it."</p><p>"Well, for his sake, I hope it was something more substantial than a cheap EMF sensor and a darkened room," Jon said. "Though I suppose they might've found it harder to fabricate a story when they couldn't cut to a reaction shot montage every thirty seconds."</p><p>"Now you're just being mean," Martin said, but he was still smiling, so Jon didn't exactly have an incentive to stop.</p><p>He volunteered to do the washing up, to the extent two plates and a water glass needed washing, and when he came back into the lounge, Martin had his notebook out and was shuffling a deck of cards. "You ready to get started?" he asked.</p><p>"It's not as if I can avoid it any longer," Jon sighed. "Are those Zener cards?"</p><p>"I borrowed them from the Institute," Martin said, a little defensively. "I thought it would be an easy thing to start with."</p><p>"Those have been repeatedly invalidated as a diagnostic instrument—"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, but they're easy enough to use," Martin said. "And it's not that much different than using regular playing cards, is it?"</p><p>Jon took his seat opposite Martin on the couch. "At least playing cards have a lower threshold of pure guessing."</p><p>"Are you going to guess?" Martin asked. "Or are you going to try to — <em>know,</em> or whatever?"</p><p>Jon had never tried to do it on purpose before; he wasn't sure how to even approach it. In that respect, he supposed Zener cards were about as likely to work as anything else. "All right. Do you want to write them down, or—?"</p><p>"No, I can write them." Martin perched on the edge of the cushion, with the cards balanced on one knee and his notebook on the other. He lifted the first card.</p><p>Jon sighed. "That's not going to work."</p><p>"Can you just try—?"</p><p>"No, it's — I can see the card reflected in your glasses," Jon explained.</p><p>"Oh!" Martin nervously touched his glasses with one hand. "I could take them off, I guess? Though I sort of need them for reading, so—"</p><p><em>This </em>was why no one used Zener cards anymore. Jon sighed. "I'll just close my eyes. You can count off the card out loud."</p><p>"All right … promise you won't peek?"</p><p>
  <em>"Martin." </em>
</p><p>"Okay, okay!" There was a great deal of rustling, and the squeaking of springs, as Martin got himself situated. "Right. Card number one."</p><p>No sudden, awful knowledge burst across Jon's mind, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful for it or not. "Hmm. Circle."</p><p>He heard Martin's pen scratch paper. "Card number two?"</p><p>Nothing. "Circle."</p><p>Scratch, scratch. "Card number three."</p><p>"Circle."</p><p>"Jon!"</p><p>"What?" Jon opened his eyes to match Martin's scowl. "Look, I'm not — nothing's happening. I'd be guessing anyway."</p><p>Martin, unfortunately, actually looked hurt. "Can you at least try to take it seriously?"</p><p>"Fine. All right." Jon shut his eyes again. "I am officially trying to read your mind."</p><p>"Okay. Thank you. Card number four."</p><p>Funny how Jon hadn't noticed all the background noise in Martin's flat until that moment — the faint electrical hum of the lights, the occasional gurgle from the pipes, movement from the units above and below. None of that, of course, told him anything about the card in his hand. "Square?"</p><p>Scratch, scratch. "Card number five."</p><p>What the hell. "Circ-"</p><p>
  <strong>duck</strong>
</p><p>The warning blossomed in his mind, and he obeyed before he even fully processed it, throwing himself sideways onto the floor. Something whizzed past his head, and there was a loud <em>thunk </em>behind him, and then something bounced softly off his shin.</p><p>Jon blinked at the tableau that surrounded him. He was on the floor, having narrowly missed the coffee table. A tennis ball was rolling placidly away under a bookshelf. And Martin, very red in the face, was holding another tennis ball in his lap.</p><p>"Did you just throw that at my head?" Jon demanded, feeling oddly betrayed.</p><p>"Sorry," Martin said, cringing a little.</p><p>Jon scrambled upright. "Why did you throw a tennis ball at me?"</p><p>"You said the, the knowing thing, mostly responds to danger," Martin explained, "which, I wasn't actually trying to hurt you or anything, I just needed to … pretend to hurt you?" He swallowed. "I'm not actually helping my case here, am I?"</p><p>Jon dropped back onto the couch. "No, no, that makes sense. With the cards as a distractor task."</p><p>"Not that that's going to work a second time." Martin flipped through a few more pages of his notebook, and unfolded some printed pages that had been tucked inside. "I've got some, um, some of the subtests of the WAIS-IV here, if you don't mind switching to one of those?"</p><p>"You're going to keep throwing things at me?"</p><p>Martin tilted his chin up. "<em>Maybe</em>."</p><p>Jon wasn't even sure where Martin was hiding the tennis balls, but he slung four more of them in Jon's direction when Jon was least expecting it. He dodged three of them, the awareness blossoming in his head just in time to act on it; the last, Martin accidentally threw wide, and Jon about jumped out of his skin when he heard it bang hollowly off a kitchen cabinet.</p><p>"That's a data point," he said, as Martin retrieved it.</p><p>"What's a data point?" Martin asked.</p><p>Jon set aside the book Martin had given him, from which he'd been reading aloud, as they'd exhausted all the other distractor tasks. "That — you meant to hit me. To the extent you meant to hit me with any of them, I mean. So I'm not — it's not registering <em>intention, </em>per se."</p><p>Martin nodded, scribbling in his notebook. "Right. You're reacting to the ball's actual location."</p><p>"Or where it's going to be." Precognition, or pure ESP? Jon had written his thesis on the falsifiability problem in parapsychology, but that was five years ago. "Have you got those articles I gave you handy?"</p><p>"Mm? Oh, yeah, in the box under the kitchen table."</p><p>Jon fetched the box and sat down right on the floor to flip through it. Meehl 1978 was near the top, thankfully. "Can you still borrow Geiger counters from Artefact Storage?"</p><p>Martin snorted. "You can borrow anything from Artefact Storage, no one actually works down there anymore."</p><p>"Hmmm."</p><p>The sound of Martin's pen suddenly stopped. "Wait. What are you going to do with a Geiger counter?"</p><p>"It's for an experiment."</p><p>"A <em>radioactive </em>experiment?"</p><p>"Not a lot of radiation," he promised. "Might need more tennis balls, though."</p><p>"I really don't know if you're joking."</p><p>Jon waved the article at him. "Meehl proposes an experimental design to distinguish different modalities of extrasensory perceptions from one another. The perceptor is asked to call the output of a — well, in his description, it's lights flashing in response to a Geiger counter. There's a built-in delay—"</p><p>"Right," Martin said, flipping through his notebook again. "I actually understood that bit. So it's supposed to show whether the, the 'perceptor' is able to call the output before it happens?"</p><p>"Or whether they're only perceiving it <em>as</em> it happens." Jon picked through a few of the other articles, in case there was a proposal that didn't involve radioactive materials.</p><p>Martin apparently found his page, and tapped his finger against the paper. "Right. But that paper also had a bunch of stuff about entropy I didn't <em>quite </em>follow…"</p><p>Jon paused to skim back through the Meehl paper; his own notes from uni were still scrawled in the margins, though he couldn't quite blame Martin for not being able to read them. "It's a control," he explained, once he found the right passages. "There's some question in the literature about the direction of causality in these things. If the perceptor might actually be <em>causing </em>the called outputs, rather than passively predicting them. So Meehl proposes a whole protocol for confirming that the outputs are truly random, which counts on the fact that what humans <em>feel </em>to be random rarely actually is."</p><p>Martin shook his head. "Well, I think we can rule out interference in this case. Unless you <em>want </em>me to throw another tennis ball at you."</p><p>"Please don't." Jon set the papers aside, and picked up another stray ball, turning it over idly in his hands. The insights were still coming in response to an external stimulus, a physical threat, however minor. They certainly still <em>felt </em>like something originating outside his head, but he wasn't sure why any of the Dread Powers would care about protecting him from a tennis ball to the face. Even if he was just a channel for something else, a channel could still be opened, closed, shaped, attuned...</p><p>...and the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.</p><p>But it wasn't like they were getting any further otherwise.</p><p>"Martin?" he called, without looking towards the sofa.</p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p>"Could you get the Zener cards out again? I — I'd like to try something."</p><p>Martin paused, but Jon could hear his moving, hear the ancient springs squealing. "O-okay, sure. Just give me a minute to shuffle."</p><p>Shuffling was a poor means of randomization, especially given the structure of the Zener deck. Playing cards would be better. Or a Geiger counter. "Take your time."</p><p>"All right …. Card number one."</p><p>Jon shut his eyes. There was a place in his head that warned him about worms and ghosts and tennis balls. He knew what it felt like, when that information came to him, and now he reached for it, or tried to. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe it was a one-way conduit. He tightened his grip on the tennis ball, and put himself back in those moments of realization, the moment his mind lit up with—</p><p>
  <strong>bangkok</strong>
</p><p>Jon threw the tennis ball across the room. This wasn't a particularly wise idea, because it bounced off the wall and immediately came back to him, drilling him in the chest before rolling away. He also yelled, a bit. "What? What is it?" Martin asked, scrambling to his feet.</p><p>"I," Jon stammered, but words were escaping him for the moment. "I think — the tennis balls were made in Thailand."</p><p>He and Martin stared at one another for a moment.</p><p>"I'm sorry, <em>what?"</em></p><p>Words, damn it, what were words. "I, I tried — knowing, on purpose, the card. I was thinking about the cards, but I was holding the ball and I must've — the information must've — leaked, or something—"</p><p>"Leaked?" Martin cringed a bit. "Is, er, is that really the best metaphor—?"</p><p>"It's an established term in the field." Jon scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I've never done that on purpose before, it's a bit—much."</p><p>"Hey, it's okay." Martin came around the end of the coffee table and stood close enough to put a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You don't — we're not exactly on a schedule here. If you want to stop for the night, we can take a break."</p><p>Jon's reflex was to stop, back away, take the time to process this — or rationalize it, or simply forget it altogether. That would've been the safe thing to do. But there was a prickling, morbid curiosity bubbling up in him, too, wondering just how much he could know, what could know <em>about, </em>especially since object reading wasn't something he'd ever done before. "No," he said. "I don't — I just need a moment."</p><p>"You sure?" Martin squeezed Jon's shoulder slightly.</p><p>Jon had never in his life taken well to the sense he was being patronized. He had never completely lost the habit, adopted in childhood, of covering vulnerability with contempt, and uncertainty with aggression. He knew this about himself, but it was one thing to know his own flaws and quite another to control them, especially when he was this rattled.</p><p>"Just get the damn <strong>cards</strong>," he snapped, shrugging off Martin's hand, no matter how comforting the small point of contact might be.</p><p>Martin didn't say anything. Martin's face went strangely blank. Martin walked, stiffly, back to the coffee table, and picked up the deck of Zener cards. Then he turned back and offered them to Jon.</p><p>A cold chill went down Jon's spine. "W-what are you doing?"</p><p>Martin blinked once. Twice. "I … I don't know," he said, sounding almost drowsy, like he was surfacing from a trance. His eyes widened. "You said — why did I do that? I don't know why I did that."</p><p>Jon backed away, as best he could given the size of the kitchen. "I didn't," he started to say, but hadn't he? Didn't he feel the same thrill on his nerves as when he knew something, when he was warned, <em>ordered, </em>except now he was doing it to someone else—?</p><p>"Okay," Martin said, shaky, and then he literally shook his head like there was some miasma hanging over it that he could clear. "Okay, so that's — that's new, right? That's not something you've—?"</p><p>"No," Jon said. "No, I swear, I've never … I don't even know how I did that."</p><p>"Okay," Martin said again. If only that could make it so. "So, what, you've got — either precognition or remote viewing, object reading, and now … now some kind of … suggestion?"</p><p>"I didn't mean to," Jon repeated. He really, really wanted that to be true.</p><p>"I believe you," Martin said. Then he took a deep breath and spread his arms. "I'm okay, Jon, see? No harm, no foul."</p><p>"Are you sure?"</p><p>"Yes!"</p><p>Right. It was … it was an accident. Something Jon could avoid doing ever again. He rubbed his eyes, where a headache was starting to grow into a steady throb. "I think … I think that's enough for tonight."</p><p>"Yeah," Martin agreed. He backed out of the entryway to the kitchen, giving Jon plenty of room to slide around him. "We can … do some more reading, I guess, and come back to it. Maybe get that Geiger counter."</p><p>"Right." Jon shrugged on his jacket, checked his pockets. "I'll … I'll be in touch."</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha went back down. Of course she went back.</p><p>The arrows and markings she had left were undisturbed, as far as she could tell; unless George (or Michael) had tampered with the walls themselves, she felt confident about finding the same path a second time. What she wasn't confident about was avoiding George if she wanted to keep exploring on her own. Chasing her off, she decided, had been a test — or maybe just playing hard to get. He had information she wanted, and he knew it, so he was waiting to see how far she'd go to get it.</p><p>The answer was Tesco's, as it turned out. She repacked her rucksack, and went back down again.</p><p>This time he didn't try to trap her, at least. He whistled to her from down a long corridor, before she even reached the winding stairs. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd frightened you off," he said as he approached, lantern held high.</p><p>"I needed a bit of time." She swung her rucksack off one shoulder so she could fish out the plastic bag from inside. "But I brought you something to make up for it."</p><p>"Oh?" George stopped at arm's length from her as she held out the bag. "A bribe, is it?"</p><p>"Apples, mostly," Sasha corrected. "A couple of bananas. One of those veggies trays with hummus." She'd paid better attention on her way out of the tunnels, watching for scraps of trash, noting wine bottles and ramen packets and cans of Ensure. It wasn't much of a leap to assume the elderly tunnel creep probably didn't get a lot of fresh produce in his diet.</p><p>As she's suspected, George's eyes lit up, and he laughed a bit. "A king's ransom, indeed. I suppose I owe you more than a few answers in exchange for such a bounty."</p><p>"I was counting on that," she admitted. "I hope you don't mind if I take notes."</p><p>George led her to a room, one he'd clearly made prior use of — there were chairs and a rickety table, a hook on the ceiling for his lantern and a length of steel pipe that could be used to bar the door. Sasha took out her notebook, and discretely started the voice recording app on her phone, while George produced an alarmingly large knife and proceeded to slice one of the apples with it. "You were asking about these tunnels, last time," he prompted.</p><p>"Why did Smirke build them?" Sasha asked. "This was all swamp in the 1820s, so constructing anything underground must've been a massive undertaking."</p><p>George swallowed a mouthful of apple. "Smirke's original intentions, I cannot begin to determine. His partnership with Jonah Magnus ended poorly, and he destroyed most of his papers related to their work on Millbank. Or else Magnus himself did."</p><p>A thrill went up Sasha's spine, some mix of dead and excitement, like approaching the first peak of a roller coaster. "Is that why the current Magnus Institute building was built in Chelsea? Do the tunnels connect to it?"</p><p>"Of course," George said, with an avuncular smile like she'd just performed an especially good trick. Then, he added quickly, "Not that I make use of that particular point of egress. What would I do in a research institution?"</p><p>What, indeed? She wasn't sure if he was a poor liar, or simply so starved for personal interaction that everything he said sounded a bit weird. Sasha decided to try a different track. "Does anyone at the Institute use these tunnels? Or — did they, before, you know? Or maybe you don't know, there was a fire…"</p><p>"Oh, I was aware of the fire," he said. "Bit difficult not to be. I think some of the staff in the archives knew about the tunnels, given their location. And the head of the institute, of course, though I don't know if he ever utilized them. Part of the reason I remain down here is to avoid being seen by things such as that."</p><p>Sasha's brain did a hard skid on <em>things. </em>The roller coaster was off. "Are you talking about Elias Bouchard?" she asked warily.</p><p>"I — yes, I think that was his name," George said. He pushed away the core of his apple, as if his appetite were going. "But that institute, it used to belong to one of the Dread Powers — the <em>monsters </em>you were going on about. And he belonged to it, too."</p><p>For a moment, Sasha couldn't breathe. It was one thing to suspect, to fear, but to hear someone state it so plainly — and <em>that </em>didn't sound like a lie, or at least not as obvious of one. The Institute <em>was </em>touched by one of those things — <em>Elias </em>had been touched, like Prentiss, though less obviously a monster. She'd suspected it, expected it, and yet — and what did that mean for them? What did that mean for the current director—?</p><p>"I'm sorry," George said softly. Sasha realized she had ground the tip of her pen into the paper hard enough and long enough to make an actual inkblot on the page. "Were you — do you work there?"</p><p>"It doesn't matter," she managed to croak. Managed to pry her pen off the page and start again. "What about — you said the archives staff knew about the tunnels? Is that where they lead?"</p><p>George went squirrelly again, toying with the sticky knife on the table. "I assume they must've known, yes. Although by the time I began to live down here, it was just — just the one archivist, I think. She did used to have assistants, though."</p><p>Just Gertrude. Who had escaped the fire. In a place touched by monsters. Sasha jotted down a note, <em>assistants?</em>, and then turned to a fresh page. "These … dread powers. Tell me more."</p><p>He did tell her, more than she could've hoped, giving names to the patterns that she'd only barely started to intuit. When he described the Beholding, the fear of being seen and known, she asked, "That's — it's what lives here, isn't it?"</p><p>He blinked. "What do you mean?"</p><p>"The Panopticon?" she prompted. "Millbank's whole … thing? And then the Institute, on the same site, doing research…"</p><p>"Very insightful," George said. "Though I believe the fire eliminated the connection between the present Institute and the Eye, or at least decisively weakened it. And these tunnels seem to be under the rule of other powers; Elias, at least, was never able to perceive my presence here."</p><p>Sasha scribbled this down, even while half her mind considered: tunnels that didn't <em>quite </em>follow the rules of normal geometry. Tunnels that made you doubt your senses, doubt your memories, doubt your perception of time and distance. Tunnels, and Michael, a walking distortion… "Is there another power that's … illusions, maybe? Things that shouldn't be what they are? Or things that aren't what they appear to be?"</p><p>George frowned. "The Stranger, certainly, covers some of those. As does the Spiral."</p><p><em>Spiral. </em>That word seemed to fit, even moreso than <em>distortion. </em>"The Spiral. Has it got power over the tunnels?"</p><p>"No more than any other maze," he said. "Is there a reason you're asking—?"</p><p>So if the tunnels didn't belong to Michael, why had it guided her here? Just to lead her to George? Why not tell her <em>itself—? </em>"Sorry," she said, jotting down some more notes. "Just … thinking something through. Tell me about the Stranger?"</p><p>George cut her off eventually, pleading exhaustion, and Sasha was shocked to realize how late it had gotten, and how many pages she'd filled with notes. "I can come back tomorrow," she said. "If you'll be around?"</p><p>He hesitated. "I think this delivery of groceries should last me for a few days."</p><p>Right. This was a transaction. "Any requests for next time, then?" she asked, trying to sound positive.</p><p>"Some cigarettes, if you wouldn't mind?" he asked with a small smile. "I know I should quit, but…"</p><p>"No problem," Sasha assured him. She'd buy out an entire off-license for him, as long as it kept him talking.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Guardian Fucking Angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha bumps into someone in the Archives. Tim and Melanie meet up at a pub. Gerry makes a dramatic entrance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha stayed late at the Institute at the next opportunity — which was really the next day she was in the office. Tim and Martin had both taken off early, pursuing their own projects, and there were so few people in the building that nobody noticed her slip down the stairs, past <em>closed for cleaning </em>signs that had been in place for over a year. </p><p>The basement still smelled of smoke and ash, and most of the lights no longer worked. As she closed in on the archives — well, former archives — she let her torch flick into the corners of the ceiling, spotting scorch marks, melted light fixtures and shattered bulbs. The entrance to the archives had once been a plain wooden door with a scratched brass plaque on it; now the door was gone, and the vacant hole it left behind was criss-crossed with caution tape. </p><p>As soon as Sasha ducked underneath the tape, she felt the distinct sensation of being watched. She swept the light of her torch across the bare, blackened shelves and twisted hulks of filing cabinets warped by heat. It wasn't a strong feeling, just a little back-of-the-neck prickle. <em>The psychic staring effect, </em>as it was dubbed in the literature, where it was debunked and reconsidered and debunked again in endless cycles. </p><p>The thumbprint of a god, if George was to be believed. The god of awful knowledge and revealed secrets. </p><p>Sasha picked her way carefully through the burnt-out rooms of the archives, watching for any signs that the floor had given way. That was the only reason she found the trapdoor, really. Ash and grit had filled in the seams between boards, in most places, but not here: the square door stood out sharply when she cast her torch over it. The handle had been rubbed clean, and when she crouched to look closer she could see footprints — layers of them — on the scorched wood.</p><p>George claimed he hadn't used this entrance in years, but clearly someone had been. </p><p>And she itched to go down there — she <em>burned </em>to dive in and find out where this tangle of tunnels met up with the ones she'd already mapped, what else was hidden under the building, what George wasn't saying. But she didn't have her gear, didn't even have proper shoes for it, and anyway there was a basket of laundry waiting back at her flat and some leftover take-away that was going to go off if she didn't eat it promptly. How did the stupid, mundane business of <em>life </em>keep getting in the way of finding out the <em>truth?</em></p><p>She forced herself to straighten up and turn around —</p><p>— and almost crashed into a large, warm body just inches behind her, silent in the dark. </p><p>Sasha screamed. It wasn't dignified. She scrambled backwards, almost tripping over her own feet, and choked up on the handle of the torch to get a good swing at her attacker. </p><p>Martin flung himself backwards as well, and his torch clattered to the ground. "Sorry!" he yelped. "I'm sorry! I just — I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to scare you!"</p><p>"Martin, what the hell?" She stared at him in the white beam of the torch — he was dressed just as he'd been the one time she'd seen him earlier that day, cringing and blushing in his usual way as he fumbled to pick up his flashlight. "Were you following me?" she blurted.</p><p>"No!" he said, indignantly. But then: "I mean, a bit? I saw the light down here and I wanted to see who it was."</p><p>"So you snuck up on me?"</p><p>"You seriously didn't hear me shouting?" </p><p>For a second they just stared at one another. Sasha searched Martin's face for any proof he was lying, any evidence to back up the hard knot of suspicion forming in her belly, but found only worried incredulity. "Sorry," she made herself say. "I guess I was — lost in thought."</p><p>He huffed a little laugh. "You could say that again!" </p><p>She turned and began to thread her way back through the burned-out shelves, and tried to ignore how the hairs on the back of her neck prickled as he fell into step behind her. "What are you even doing in the basement?" she asked. "I thought you'd gone home for the day."</p><p>"The director wanted to meet with me," Martin said. "And I needed to get something out of Artefact Storage."</p><p>"And it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"</p><p>He was scowling at her when she glanced back. "What are <em>you </em>doing snooping around down here, anyway?"</p><p>"Looking for clues about the fire," she said; it was the first thing that came to mind that would explain it without revealing anything about the tunnels. </p><p>"You're not — the police were <em>here, </em>Sasha, remember? You're not going to find anything that the inquest missed!" </p><p>She glanced back again; Martin's face had gone pale again, and he looked — worried? Scared? Was she reading too much into it? (Had he actually followed her down?) "The inquest assumed that Gertrude was dead," she pointed out. "What if they missed something else?"</p><p>"Well … I still don't think you're going to find anything." </p><p>They stopped at the base of the stairs. Martin was supposed to be going the other direction, into Artefact Storage; Sasha had no reason to stay, except to keep up the same damned argument they'd been having ever since she realized that Gertrude was still alive, was the only person unaccounted for and with both the knowledge and — </p><p>Wait. </p><p>"Martin," she said, right when the silence between them was starting to get strained. "You've worked here for a pretty long time, right?"</p><p>"I mean .. I guess?" He reached one hand back to scratch at his collar. "Why?"</p><p>She phrased her question carefully. "Do you know why Gertrude's title was <em>Head </em>Archivist? I thought she was the only person who worked down there.”</p><p>Martin looked wary, like he suspected she was up to something but wasn't quite certain what. But he did answer, after a minute of thought. "I think she did used to have a couple of assistants? They, erm, they all quit right around the time I first got hired, so I never really got to know them well."</p><p>"Do you remember their names?" she asked. If Gertrude had other allies besides Gerard and Jon … or if <em>George </em>did …</p><p>"Oh, jeez." Martin screwed up his face with the effort of remembering. "I don't remember exactly … I think Emma, Emily was one? She was almost as old as Gertrude, so I wasn't exactly surprised she retired. And Sarah Carpenter, she — well, she didn't quit, she was in some sort of accident and never came back to work, I remember that one. And the third one, what was his name … Michael?"</p><p>Sasha didn't drop her torch again, but it was a near thing.</p><p>"Yeah, Michael Sh-sh-shields, maybe? Sheen? No, idiot, Michael Sheen's an actor. Erm." Martin shrugged. "Like I said, I didn't really know them? Plus I was working in the library back then, not research, so…"</p><p>"No, that was — that was helpful," Sasha said, as soon as she could unstick her tongue from her suddenly-dry mouth. "Thank you, Martin."</p><p>"You're welcome?"</p><p>She took the stairs two at a time, back up towards the office, praying that Amy from HR still hadn't changed any of her passwords. </p>
<hr/><p>When Tim had gotten as far on his own as he possibly could, he asked Melanie to meet him at a pub in Barnet. She got there before he did; he found her sitting at one of the two spindly tables out front, with a truly massive purse parked between her feet, sipping a sparkling water and scowling at their surroundings. "Didn't take you for a day drinker," she called as he approached. </p><p>"Didn't come here to drink," Tim said. He dug into his laptop bag for his notes, and passed Melanie the missing person flier Sasha had dug up. "Is this the same Sarah Baldwin that you met?"</p><p>Melanie took the flier and studied it, brows furrowed. "I … maybe?" she concluded. "Her hair was a lot shorter … actually, <em>she </em>was a lot shorter, this says five-foot-six. Also, this is from almost a decade ago, and in <em>Scotland."</em></p><p>"I noticed that, yeah," Tim said. "There were a series of disappearances in Edinburgh, over about five years, all of them on the exact same street. That Sarah Baldwin was one of them, and she might still be listed as a missing person, but she's the right age and race for the one you met. As is —" he pointed across the road — "the proprietor of that shop over there."</p><p>"The Trophy Room?" Melanie read off the peeling sign. They were right at the edge of where a commercial street transitioned into apartment blocks, and the old taxidermist's stuck out like a sore thumb, with his faded paint and grimy canopies. From the window, some kind of large cat was frozen in a permanent howl, although one of its canines had broken off at some point. "She's a sound engineer, not a taxidermist."</p><p>"Papers say she bought the place from one Daniel Rawlings early last year," Tim explained. "Who, incidentally, was also reported missing in Edinburgh, couple months after Sarah Baldwin was."</p><p>Melanie appeared lost in thought for a bit. "People get reported missing all the time," she said, though she didn't sound like she actually believed it. "And that's not an uncommon name."</p><p>Tim knew that; Sasha had handed him literally every document she could find related to every Sarah Baldwin in the country since the turn of the century, and he wasn't sure if she was being a troll or just showing off. "The National Insurance numbers line up," he explained instead. "And the taxidermist gave the same address in Sydenham as yours, when she set up the sole proprietorship. Despite the fact that, according to the landlord, the building hasn't been let in months."</p><p>"That's … pretty good detective work," Melanie said, and Tim couldn't help but smirk at finally pulling a compliment out of her. "But I have a feeling you didn't invite me here just to tell me your findings, so if we're not drinking, what are we doing?"</p><p>"I've been staking this place out since I made the connection," he explained, though <em>staking out </em>was perhaps too generous a term; he wasn't sure spending his evenings at this pub, staring at the building and nursing a pint, counted. "It's hardly open. There's not even any rubbish in the bins. If the phone weren't still working, I'd swear it was abandoned."</p><p>Melanie's eyes narrowed. "And what? Do you want to break in or something?"</p><p>"I just want to have a look around—" </p><p>"Because I'm pretty good at picking locks," Melanie continued blithely, and hoisted her purse into her lap. "And I just happen to have a camera with me."</p><p>The camera she pulled out was about half the size of the big VHS camcorders Tim remembered from his childhood. Though the plastic was discolored in a few places, the logo still stood out proudly: <em>Super Zoom 8.</em> He blinked. "You're just carrying that around, are you?"</p><p>"I was planning on doing a film test after this," she snapped. "I haven't got a ton of experience with eight millimeter, but given what happened with the digital footage I shot at the hospital, I thought it might be good to get some practice in."</p><p>It was Tim's turn to read between the lines on that one. "You're doing your own investigation, aren't you?"</p><p>"Why shouldn't I?" she shot back. "I might not know who or what Sarah was, but I sure as hell know what a ghost is and how to investigate one. <em>Something </em>attacked her at that hospital."</p><p>"Fair," Tim sighed. "Are you having any luck?"</p><p>She averted her eyes from his. "Still in the preliminaries." </p><p>Tim stuffed his notes back into his bag. "So are we doing this? Or do you want to wait until after dark?" It occurred to him that the camera might not have a built-in light source. </p><p>Melanie popped a panel in the side of the camera open and bit her lip. "I've got enough film for … say fifteen minutes? Longer if I drop the frame rate down, a bit."</p><p>"Well, we're not going to throw a dinner party in there."</p><p>She waited at the pub while Tim tried the front entrance — locked, of course, thought it was within the posted hours. He squeezed into the alley behind the building and peered into the back window, but there were no lights on inside. There hadn't been lights on any time he'd visited after dark, either. Either things like Sarah Baldwin didn't need light, or nobody was home to interfere with them.</p><p>He texted Melanie, who came down the alley and immediately set to picking the lock on the back door with something she'd retrieved from her enormous purse. "Do a lot of breaking and entering for your show?" Tim asked, scanning the alley to ensure they weren't being observed. </p><p>"None of your business," Melanie sniffed. Then: "Wow, they don't even have a deadbolt on this door."</p><p>"Probably not a lot of places to fence stolen taxidermy," Tim pointed out.</p><p>As soon as the lock clicked open, Melanie cracked the door and then paused. "No security system, either," she murmured. "C'mon, in we go."</p><p>Tim followed her, a step behind, and immediately wished he hadn't. The back room of the shop stank horribly, a mix of chemicals and artificial air freshener. Tools hung from the walls, and the shelves were full of jugs and bottles, bags of sawdust, and lidded buckets. On waist-high tables around the room were skins in various states of being stuffed. A few molded plastic forms stuck out from under the tables, waiting to be dressed: some were obvious, a deer's head or some small quadruped, but others were impossible to make sense of. A box of glass eyes had spilled out onto a table, gold and staring all directions. Two massive chest freezers stood against one wall, and Tim had a pretty good idea what they contained. </p><p>"Jesus," Melanie groaned, pulling her scarf up over her face. The gauzy material seemed unlikely to do anything useful, but Tim was still slightly jealous. </p><p>He tried the next door while Melanie started the camera. The room beyond was dark, and when Tim tried to feel for a lightswitch his hand immediately landed on something dry and sparsely hairy. He jerked it back, swearing. </p><p>"Okay, rolling," Melanie announced. "Have you got a torch?" </p><p>The best Tim had was his phone, but he turned it on and aimed it into the darkened doorway. The light revealed a mundane looking office, filing cabinets, and a desktop computer, but hanging above them were elaborate stuffed heads and pelts hanging from rails. There was a peculiar, yellowish rabbit posed on its hind legs, wearing a little waistcoat, on one corner of the desk. He stepped inside, gingerly, and scanned the walls until he found the overhead light. </p><p>Melanie adjusted the camera as she panned across the walls. "So this is extremely horrible and all, but I don't see anything particularly <em>supernatural </em>in here." She cracked the office's other door and peeked out. "Just goes to the front of the shop." </p><p>Tim, meanwhile, had switched on the computer, and was going through the desk while it booted up. There were a few invoices and receipts laying about, but the signatures were illegible, so he couldn't tell if they were Sarah Baldwin's or not. Credit card slips, though the dates were all months old. The usual bits and bobs of a desk, pens and staples and sticky notes … </p><p>… and in the large bottom drawer, a doll.</p><p>Tim didn't pick it up; he was loathe to even touch it. The doll had a cloth body, understuffed and floppy, which might've been white with purple polka dots once. Now it was stained and yellowed and frayed around the edges. The head appeared to be made of carved wood, with a block cut out for the mouth that could open and close. The whole head was painted a leaden white, with stark black slashes to suggest closed eyes, and an asymmetrical blob of red around where the mouth articulated. A fucking <em>clown.</em></p><p>"Hey, look at this." Tim slammed the drawer with the clown doll shut and turned around. Melanie was pointing the camera at the floor; there was a brass ring pull embedded there, laying not quite flush. When Tim looked closer, he could see the outline of a trap door in the seams of the floorboards, just barely. "Think it's worth looking down there?"</p><p>"I don't know," Tim admitted. The clown doll had him rattled, but he had to admit it wasn't explicitly supernatural in nature. Just an awful lot of coincidences for a completely mundane taxidermist's shop. Maybe they should come back later, when they were better prepared … maybe even armed. But he'd feel like a massive twit if it just turned out to be an ordinary cellar or a boiler room or something. </p><p>Christ, he was tired of being scared. Of <em>not knowing. </em></p><p>He stood up, not waiting for Melanie to respond, and grabbed the pull ring. The door lifted easily enough, although he immediately realized there was a problem — it was large enough that it couldn't lay flat, instead bracing awkwardly against the door to the back room. Blocking their exit. Melanie immediately stepped away from the opening, swearing. Tim opened his mouth to ask what was wrong—</p><p>--but he was cut off by an eerie, monotone voice. "We’ve got one down here. Come on, I’ll show you."</p><p>Tim peered over the side of the opening. Wooden stairs disappeared down into a dark space, and at the foot of them was a person — or the shape of a person, at least, though only the face was clearly visible. It was a pale face, with wide, unblinking eyes, and its whole body seemed to be swaying slightly, bobbing aimlessly in place like a figure in a video game. </p><p>"Sorry," Tim stammered, reaching for a story that would make sense. "I, er, we were looking for Sarah—"</p><p>"We’ve got one down here," the voice came again. Identical in every inflection, or rather, the lack thereof. "Come on, I’ll show you."</p><p>Its mouth wasn't moving. </p><p>"Melanie," Tim said, unable to look away from the swaying face. "Are you getting this?"</p><p>She pressed closer to his side; he could hear the motor from the camera whirring away. "I think so. Erm. Can you get more light down there?"</p><p>With shaking hands, Tim managed to thumb open his phone and select the flashlight button. </p><p>"We’ve got one down here," the voice came again, and again the waxy, pallid facsimile-face didn't move. When Tim raised his phone, the light revealed stretched, limp limbs, the ends just rounded suggestions of hands and feet that did not touch the ground. More like the doll in the drawer than anything human.</p><p>And then it — retracted. Folded double at the middle — it would be a reach to call it a <em>waist — </em>and jerked backwards, into darkness. </p><p>Tim stared, frozen, into the space where it had been. "Where'd it go?" Melanie whispered behind him.</p><p>Something moved in the darkness. Something large.</p><p>"We need to get out of here," Tim blurted, just before, with the sound of splintering wood, the thing in the dark surged forward. </p><p>They scrambled for the remaining door, bumping into one another. The stairs to the basement cracked and squealed rhythmically, like the thing in the darkness was <em>trying </em>to walk up them properly despite its incomprehensible anatomy. They burst into the main room of the shop, and Tim, without thinking, grabbed a heavy cabinet of stuffed birds and pulled. For an instant, it wouldn't budge, and he was afraid it was bolted to the wall somehow to stop exactly this sort of abuse; but then it shifted, and he managed to topple it over in front of the office door with a crash of fracturing glass. It might not stop the basement thing, but perhaps it would slow it down?</p><p>"Tim!"</p><p>He spun on his heel, just in time for Melanie to back into him. The room was lit only by the daylight filtering through its grimy windows, but it was enough to highlight how every glassy eye in the place was turning towards them. No, not just eyes — as he frantically scanned the room, he could see heads turning, sculpted jaws opening, even if he couldn't seem to catch the movement in progress. The lion in the front window suddenly had one paw on the floor. A whole goddamned elk was turned toward them. </p><p>"What the hell do we do?" Melanie hissed, but she seemed to be keeping the camera astonishingly steady.</p><p>Tim glanced back toward the office just in time for something to fling itself, hard, at the blocked door. Some of the stuffed birds had worked themselves free of the smashed cabinet, as well, looking at them with alien eyes. He kicked at a mallard duck nearest to them, sending it bouncing off the shaking door, but they were surrounded, there were no other exits —</p><p>Glass crashed, again, from the front of the shop, and Melanie shrieked in surprise.</p><p>Tim looked up just in time to see a lanky human shape kick the rest of the glass from the door frame. They were backlit by daylight, but just the fact that they were moving normally and not in unseen jerks and leaps was enough to inspire hope. The figure stepped fully into the shop, and then raised something in one hand — touched it, manipulated it with the other —- it was a lantern, Tim realized, the moment before its shutters opened and bathed the shop in impossibly bright white light. </p><p>Gerard Keay, who was holding the lantern, beckoned to them. "Come on, this isn't going to hold them forever." </p><p>The door behind them thumped again, but the taxidermied animals bathed in the lantern-light seemed to have returned to their frozen state. "Who are you," Melanie asked in a strident voice, not budging.</p><p>"I'm your guardian fucking angel," Gerard snapped. "Now <em>move."</em></p><p>Tim grabbed Melanie by the arm and urged her forward, towards the lantern. He was aware of movement in shadows, in the corners where the light didn't reach, which meant something could be coming up behind them. Gerard raised the lantern high enough for them to duck under, and Tim squeezed through the shattered glass door, and then took off, choosing a direction without thought for anything but <em>away from here. </em></p><p>"Let go of me!" Melanie yelped, and Tim realized he was still holding onto her arm. She kept pace with him even when he let go, though, and they ran until Tim's lungs felt like they were going to burst from exertion. </p><p>He collapsed on the nearest flat surface, which turned out to be a garden wall. They had run all the way into a residential area, rows of tidy terraced houses, where the angles were well-behaved and the shadows weren't hiding anything monstrous. Melanie took the camera out of her bag and checked it over. "I think I got all that," she said. </p><p>"Good for you," Tim panted. </p><p>She glared at him. "Don't blame this one me. <em>You </em>were the one who wanted to go snooping—"</p><p>"I'm not <em>blaming anybody—"</em></p><p>"--some kind of … creepy monster zoo in there!"</p><p>"--you went along with it!" He buried his face in his hands. He'd told Sasha, hadn't he? He'd told her this kind of thing would get them killed, and then he went and ignored his own advice. Stupid, stupid, <em>stupid, </em>Stoker. Anything connected to Danny and his whole brain just went on holiday—</p><p>He snapped upright at the sound of pounding footfalls on pavement. It was just Gerard, though, jogging behind them. The mysterious lantern was tucked in the crook of his arm. "You want to tell me what you two amateurs were doing in there?" he said as he approached. </p><p>Melanie straightened, which was a bit like watching a cat puff out its fur, and probably meant the same thing. "Excuse <em>me?" </em></p><p>Gerard ignored the venom in her voice. "I mean, I get that you're interested in the Circus of Fuckery and all, but have you ever heard of subtlety?"</p><p>"Fuck off, Keay," Tim snapped. "You didn't tell me what you were doing."</p><p>"Neither did you," he shot back, "and now you've just blown my best lead. Great job. Well done."</p><p>"I don't know who the hell you are," Melanie said, "and we certainly didn't ask for your input."</p><p>Gerard snorted. "I don't know who <em>you </em>are, but I just saved you from being peeled and put on display, so, y'know, you're welcome."</p><p>Tim leapt to his feet and grabbed Gerard by his stupid black overcoat. "What the hell was that thing?" he demanded.</p><p>"I don't know," Gerard said, "because I didn't get a chance to get inside the building and look at it, much less stop it. And now they're most likely going to move it, I've wasted my best weapon — " and here he jangled the lantern at them — "and we're both back to square one, assuming you ever even got <em>beyond </em>square one."</p><p>Melanie stepped toe to toe with him. "If you're just going to insult us, then you can fuck off!"</p><p>"Fine," Gerard said, stepping around her. "As you wish. Hope you don't get murdered horribly."</p><p>He strode off; Melanie tried chasing after him for a few yards, shouting, but Tim just sat back on the wall and buried his face in his hands. Served him right for getting his hopes up — if there were any answers, any solutions, any <em>justice, </em>it was beyond his reach. He should just be happy he hadn't been killed.</p><p>Melanie came stomping back up to him. "Who the hell does he think he is? Who the hell <em>is </em>he?"</p><p>"Gerard Keay," Tim mumbled. "Monster hunter and part-time mall goth."</p><p>That seemed to bring Melanie up short. "Monster — you're joking."</p><p>"It's what he says."</p><p>"...well, why weren't we talking to him sooner?"</p><p>Tim wasn't going to grace that with a response anyway, but unfortunately, he didn't have to. He heard a car roll up, and doors click, and when he raised his head he found himself looking at a police constable just getting out of the passenger side.</p><p>So there was a way this could go even worse. Wonderful. </p><p>"Excuse me," the constable said briskly. "Do the two of you know anything about a break in just down the road?"</p><p>"Where?" Melanie asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest.</p><p>The constable tossed her head back in the direction of The Trophy Room. "Pub owner called the police to report two people matching your description snooping around the place. Know anything about that?"</p><p>"No." She couldn't sound more like a petulant teenager if she'd tried, really. </p><p>The constable — the name tag on her vest said <em>Hussain — </em>looked at Tim, as if she expected him to try to talk his way out of this. "I'm not sure I know the pub you're talking about," he said, not really expecting it to work.</p><p>It didn't. "I'm going to ask you to get in the car, please." Melanie started some indignant sputtering, which Hussein ignored. "We can get this all sorted out at the station, yeah?"</p><p>"Of course we can," Tim sighed, and heaved himself to his feet. </p>
<hr/><p>He settled on what he hoped was a good story: they'd had an appointment at The Trophy Room, and had gone around the back when the front door was locked. He hadn't seen any CCTV cameras in the alley, so unless the evil taxidermy clowns had their own security cameras, he was pretty sure there would be no proof of Melanie picking the lock. Or, he supposed, unless Melanie told them, but it was too late to get their stories straight now.</p><p>He might have been a little too enthusiastic about describing the black-clad stranger who'd kicked the door in and chased them out of the shop, when they were just poor innocents trying to do some research. Constable Hussain certainly didn't seem fooled, but when she returned to the interview room she didn't bring handcuffs, so he took that as a positive sign. </p><p>"You're free to go," she said, giving him a truly epic stink-eye. "We'll call you if we have any further questions. Try not to accidentally stumble upon any more random acts of vandalism, okay?"</p><p>"I'll do my best," Tim promised.</p><p>He found Melanie in the waiting area when he stopped to retrieve his bag and personal effects; she was rummaging through her purse, as if confirming the contents. "You all right?" she asked, glancing nervously at the desk clerk.</p><p>"No," Tim said. "You?"</p><p>She sighed, and looked into her purse. "That … could've gone better."</p><p>Tim snorted. </p><p>She trailed after him out of the police station, though. It was nearly six, and a miserable spitting rain had started up. "Share a cab?" she suggested.</p><p>"I'm headed to Bromley."</p><p>"Seriously?"</p><p>Tim had hit his last nerve several hours ago, and a new supply had not been forthcoming. "Are you physically capable of not being a judgemental little snit?"</p><p>Melanie took a deep breath, back straightening — and then, before Tim's eyes, she let it out through clenched teeth. "Sorry." A beat. "Doesn't look like they damaged the film when they searched my bag."</p><p>Hooray, a souvenir to their near-death experience. "How do you tell for certain?"</p><p>"Send it off for processing and wait, I suppose." She fidgeted with the strap of her bag, and the next words seem to take her even more effort than apologizing. "I don't — know, what that was. Any of that."</p><p>"Same here," Tim admitted. </p><p>She gave a small, bitter laugh. "I've spent most of my professional life hunting ghosts, but the first time I stumble into something <em>real—" </em>She didn't finish the thought. She didn't really have to. </p><p>They found the nearest bus stop, and Tim checked the timetables on his phone. Thank god he hadn't lost it in the scramble like Martin — he pushed the thought out of his head. "I'm sorry I got your hopes up," he told Melanie. "I shouldn't have expected to get any answers for you. Hell, I can't even get any for myself."</p><p>"This is so much bigger than either of us, isn't it?" she asked quietly. "It's bigger than one person, or one place. It's bigger than ghosts and monsters."</p><p>"Seems that way."</p><p>She took out her own phone and started typing. "What did you say the sketchy mall goth's name was? Jared?"</p><p>"Ger-ard," Tim said. "Gerard Keay."</p><p>"How's that spelled?"</p><p>"No idea."</p><p>She sighed. "I mean, he's awful, but he certainly seems to know more than we do."</p><p>"That's not exactly hard." Tim didn't want anyone else to get sucked into the widening gyre that was Pinhole Books, but Melanie was already involved in something, and she'd said she was doing her own research into the presence at the hospital. If they didn't keep working together, she'd just go off by herself, and then who the hell knew what would happen. "But yeah. He's told me some stuff. Some of it's probably even true."</p><p>"What sort of <em>stuff?"</em></p><p>Tim was too exhausted to rehash it all just then, and there was a bus approaching out of the gloom. "Tell you what," he said. "Let's meet up some time when we haven't just been arrested and nearly mauled by taxidermy. I'll lay it out for you then."</p><p>She frowned at him. "If this is just your way of brushing me off—"</p><p>"I promise," Tim said. "I swear, it's not. I just need a shower and about half a bottle of gin before I'm going to feel up to talking about the dark secrets of the universe, okay?"</p><p>For a moment, he genuinely thought she was going to argue with him, but as the bus pulled up to the stop, she sighed and nodded. "Yeah, that's fair. But I'm holding you to that!"</p><p>"I do not doubt that," Tim said, and they boarded the bus together.</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. On the Same Side</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Martin do some weird science. Melanie sticks her nose in. Sasha pays a visit to King's College.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their version of the Meehl experiment involved a handful of colorful polyhedral dice, borrowed from Gerry, which Jon spent hours rolling and re-rolling until he was certain they were fair. Martin, meanwhile, produced a massive VHS camera from the Institute's equipment stores, although not without complaint.</p><p>"I don't trust our phones to record it accurately," Jon explained. "Given how the Entities usually interact with digital media."</p><p>"I guess I don't understand why we need to record it at all?" Martin asked.</p><p>To prove Jon wasn't somehow compelling Martin to write down the wrong (or, well, right) numbers. "As an additional control."</p><p>"Okay, fine…"</p><p>They'd waited for an evening when both Gertrude and Gerry would be out, and Jon could bribe Mary to behave herself for an hour or two. He and Martin sat on opposite sides of the coffee table, with a row of books standing on their sides between them as a screen. "Ready when you are," Jon said, though he wasn't sure if he would call himself <em>ready </em>so much as <em>fed up, </em>eager to get started in the same way he was eager to tear off a plaster, even if it started him bleeding again.</p><p>Martin used the little remote control to start the camera recording. "Okay. Experiment one, set one. I'm rolling all three dice at once, and if the little pyramid one comes up even, I'm to record the result off the red die. If it's odd, I record the result of the blue one. Which I still think is excessive, but — here we go!"</p><p>Jon didn't have time to protest before he heard plastic clatter on wood. He shut his eyes for a moment, reaching out for — for lack of a better term — the <em>feel </em>of the dice. (He'd rolled them over and over to test, and while he rolled them he'd found he could catch little impressions, random facts. These dice had been manufactured in Germany. They had been sold in a small, cheerfully cluttered shop in Finchley, until Gerry shoplifted them when he was fifteen. Gerry had sat, lonely and bored, rolling them over in his hands—)</p><p>
  <strong>ten</strong>
</p><p>Jon jotted it down in his notebook. Martin rolled the dice again.</p><p>
  <strong>eighteen</strong>
</p><p> 
  <strong>three</strong>
</p><p>Eighty-three rolls to achieve statistical significance, according to some very nice people on Stack Overflow. Jon had talked Martin into rounding it up to one hundred, mostly by agreeing to buy the pizza. And also promising to do all the data entry and video review to validate the whole thing. All of which was now seeming very redundant: he could <em>feel </em>the veracity of the results, coming in as clearly as any warning ever had, even if the effort of maintaining his concentration was making a headache bloom behind his eyes.</p><p>It took a bit longer than fifteen minutes to finish one hundred rolls, and at the end of it Jon simply flopped backwards onto the floor and threw a hand over his face to block out the light. Martin disassembled the book barrier, grabbed Jon's notebook from the other side. "Jon," he said, after taking a moment to compare the result. "This is—"</p><p>"I know," Jon tried to interrupt.</p><p>"--perfect. Like, you even got the colors. Holy shit." There was some electronic beeping as he remembered to turn off the camera, and then the sound of Martin walking on his knees to Jon's side. "How are you feeling?"</p><p>"Like I just pulled my brain through a colander," Jon admitted.</p><p>"Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?"</p><p>"Yes, please."</p><p>Martin also turned off the overhead light, leaving just the floor lamp and some light filtering out of Jon's bedroom; he went downstairs, and came back with three kinds of painkillers and an ice pack. "I just need a minute," Jon pleaded after swallowing the pills.</p><p>"Hey, I'm not in any rush," Martin said. "Going to muck up the data if you give yourself a migraine, right?"</p><p>"Sure. Let's go with that."</p><p>Jon had clambered onto the sofa, and he belatedly realized he should pull his feet up so Martin could sit as well. For a little while, they were both quiet as the meds began to kick in. Then Martin asked, quietly, "Have you been practicing?"</p><p>"You could say so." Calling it <em>practice </em>implied more structure and consistency than he'd actually applied, but <em>experimentation </em>implied too much rigor. Mostly he'd been … exploring, like with the dice, or during his shifts manning the shop. Mostly objects. Less often, people.</p><p>"Have there been …" Martin paused, as if weighing his words carefully. "Have you had any more accidents? Like when I brought you the cards?"</p><p>Jon flinched for reasons that had nothing to do with his headache. "No. I haven't … I don't want to risk it."</p><p>Martin hesitated again. "Well, you seem a lot better at the object reading thanks to practice. So maybe … if you practiced the, ah, other things … you'd be able to, er, not do it?"</p><p>Jon raised his head off the cushion to look at Martin, but Martin was looking off into space, chin raised in a way Jon was coming to recognize. "Are you volunteering to be mind-controlled?" he asked, bluntly. "Because you didn't seem to find it particularly thrilling the first time."</p><p>"I mean, it felt — weird, yeah," Martin argued. "But you didn't hurt me. I <em>know </em>you wouldn't hurt me."</p><p>"We may be operating with different definitions of <em>harm."</em></p><p>"It's just a suggestion," Martin mumbled, chin falling.</p><p>Jon sighed. He probably owed Martin more of an explanation than this. He <em>definitely </em>owed Martin the truth, after all the time he'd spent lying to him. The fact that he'd rather pull his own teeth than talk about this … well, nobody said practicing good communication was easy.</p><p>He nudged Martin's leg with one foot, to get his attention. When Martin looked up, Jon said, bluntly, "I almost got killed by a Leitner when I was a child."</p><p>
  <em>"What?"</em>
</p><p>Jon tried to tell the story as quickly, and factually, as possible. The board book. The horrible illustrations. How close he'd come to knocking on Mr. Spider's door. Martin listened, rapt, hardly even breathing. "I don't know if I — if that's what marked me," he concluded. "It seems to strain credulity a bit, that something I encountered when I was eight could suddenly come back to haunt me—"</p><p>"Moreso than … everything else?" Martin said, with an expansive gesture.</p><p>Jon sighed. "True. But if all this is just the Web waiting to finish its leftovers, I — I'm not certain I want to play along."</p><p>Martin nodded; at some point, he'd put a hand on Jon's ankle, large and warm, and Jon was disinclined to try to move it. "I can understand that, yeah."</p><p>He didn't say anything else, and Jon groaned. "You still think I should do it."</p><p>"I didn't — you don't — are you reading my mind?" Martin demanded.</p><p>"I didn't exactly have to," Jon insisted.</p><p>Martin sighed. "Fine, yes. I think we should still try to find out the edges of what you can do. And it might help to clarify — like, having a <em>danger sense </em>is very Spider-Man, yeah, but it doesn't seem to fit in the Web's whole thing, and that's been the bigger part of what you can do, right?"</p><p>"Look, until a few weeks ago I didn't know what I could do," Jon pointed out. "Now I'm apparently reading auras and doing mind control and — I don't know what else."</p><p>"Well, you won't know, until you try!"</p><p>Jon groaned, and flopped back on the sofa in defeat.</p>
<hr/><p>Melanie honestly wasn't expecting Tim to keep his word, but he did, texting her a few days after the taxidermist's to set up a meeting. He shared with her what he knew, and just as important, he paid for the booze afterwards.</p><p>In return, she agreed to share her research on the war ghosts. Well, Drunk Melanie agreed to it, and in the cold light of day Sober Melanie couldn't really see any reason not to stick to her word — Tim could be a sarcastic prick, apparently, but she also didn't have to worry about whether he'd <em>believe </em>her. Not like Andy, who spent more and more time out of the flat, or some of her so-called professional peers, sticking to their safe and predictable hauntings and finding excuses to ignore the things that lay a little further into the darkness…</p><p>So, yeah. She transferred the important stuff to a thumb drive, packed the hard copies into a binder, and schlepped it all over to the Magnus Institute for a show and tell.</p><p>When she got to Tim's office, she was surprised to hear voices already coming from inside. Not that she should've been, of course — she'd seen the other two desks in the room, and there was a lightly tattered sheet of paper taped up next to the door with three names. But given the overall vibe of the big empty building, and Tim's sad sack behavior when she'd first come to give her statement, she'd sort of assumed he worked alone.</p><p>The door was ajar, so Melanie felt justified in poking her head through. Tim was talking to the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.</p><p>"Of course it's about him," said the most beautiful woman Melanie had ever seen, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I don't know if you noticed this, Tim, but you're not exactly rational where Danny's concerned."</p><p>"As opposed to you?" Tim asked archly. "Oh paragon of reasonable behavior?"</p><p>The beautiful woman scowled, but remained beautiful. "You're taking Martin's side in all this, then?"</p><p>"There is no taking sides here!" Tim said, sounding desperate. "But the more you try to make this Sasha James Versus the World, the more I'm starting to think Martin had the right of things from the beginning."</p><p>"Fine," said Sasha James, as she snatched up a bag from one of the other desks. "If that's how you want it to — oh."</p><p>She noticed for the first time that Melanie was standing in the doorway, and there was no way for Melanie to hide that she'd been listening. Melanie cleared her throat. "I, er —- Tim?"</p><p>Sasha looked her up and down, and there was something <em>sharp </em>about her gaze, something that made Melanie feel exposed — but then she tacked an awkward smile onto her face, and oh, even that was sort of attractive. "Right. I'll just leave him to you, then."</p><p>"It doesn't have to be like this, Sash," Tim called at Sasha's retreating back.</p><p>"Apparently it does!" Sasha called back, and shut the door behind her.</p><p>Tim groaned and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Co-worker?" Melanie asked, since <em>Sasha James </em>was one of the names taped up by the door.</p><p>"In theory," Tim sighed.</p><p>Melanie tentatively pulled up the chair that Sasha had left sticking out from her desk. She realized it was a long shot, but — "Is she single?"</p><p>Tim glared at her in a way that conveyed a deep, personal disappointment. "Married to the job, you could say."</p><p>"I could work with that." Not like people hadn't accused her of the same thing, plenty of times. Tim rolled his eyes at her. "Anyway! Ghosts. Let's talk about ghosts."</p><p>She showed him her notes, though so far they were fragmentary — not even something she could call a pattern, really. More like the negative space around a pattern, full of things people wouldn't talk about and didn't want to look at. Obviously she understood why serious researchers had to be careful about reports from unreliable witnesses, ones who might've been drunk or high or simply lying—</p><p>"Or dreaming?" Tim put in.</p><p>"Yes," Melanie said, resisting the urge to grind her teeth. "That's my <em>point — </em>I know why they don't believe me, because <em>I </em>wouldn't have believed me, and that's made me reconsider a lot of these less reliable reports."</p><p>"Nice to see that you'll recognize a problem once it inconveniences you personally," Tim grumbled.</p><p>She snatched back her binder of notes and leapt to her feet. "Do you want my help?" she snapped. "Do you really? Because I can go a <em>lot </em>of places to get shit on and dismissed right now."</p><p>He sighed. "I do want your help," he said. "Sorry. I'll try to cut the snark."</p><p>"Thank you." Melanie took a deep breath, trying to rein in her temper. "So. I'm starting to think there are places — hauntings that the regular community of paranormal investigators ignore. For a reason. Things like the ghost that attacked Sarah in the hospital, maybe."</p><p>"You think it's a conspiracy?" Tim asked.</p><p>Melanie shrugged. "Conspiracy's a strong word? More like … unspoken agreement. I think we've all been focusing on the same circuit of safe, reliable sites because exploring off the path might mean … well, something like the Trophy Room."</p><p>Tim nodded. "Same reason we don't often go out and do the leg work here, I reckon." He was clicking through her collection of personal narratives now, all the saved web pages that looked like garbage without their graphics and style sheets. "This is a <em>lot </em>of stories."</p><p>"No more than you have statements," Melanie shot back. "I started out focusing on sites of historical conflict, like the hospital. Military bases, battlefields, sort of thing. But once you told me about the other entities … well, I've sort of been trying to explore the full range, if that makes sense?"</p><p>Tim nodded, and grabbed his own binder off the corner of the desk. "So, this is gonna sound like a total change of topic, but have you ever heard of Robert Smirke?"</p><p>Melanie blinked. "That's a real name?"</p><p>"Well, we can't all be <em>Kings, </em>can we?"</p><p>He went on a bit of a tangent, then, about architecture and occultism, before circling back around to the point, which was a list of all the … things, gods or whatever, that fed on fear. Melanie looked it over with a critical eye. "Fourteen seems like a lot."</p><p>"I thought it seemed short, actually," Tim said. "But Sasha won't tell me where she got the list, so I can't exactly ask follow-up questions."</p><p>"She didn't get it from the Gothic Avenger?" Melanie asked. War ghosts would be <em>slaughter, </em>the taxidermist would be … <em>flesh, </em>she supposed?</p><p>"Who even knows?" Tim said. "Not like we can just ask <em>him </em>anything."</p><p>"Why not?" Melanie asked. "If he's going to berate us about interfering with his monster-hunting nonsense, he should try actually helping so we don't have to!"</p><p>"Try telling <em>him </em>that."</p><p>"Maybe I will!"</p><p>First, though, she did her background research. She wasn't <em>reckless. </em>Sitting on her bed, eating noodles in her pajamas, she deployed her best Google-fu along with the few database subscriptions she'd bought for the show that hadn't yet run out. <em>Did you know GK was accused of murdering his mother? </em>she texted Tim.</p><p><em>His mother lives with him??? </em>he sent back.</p><p>She texted a link to the least-hysterical newspaper account she could find. Not that she necessarily blamed the papers for the hysteria — she certainly knew how <em>she'd </em>pitch that sort of thing to an audience, a gory murder where the only suspect walked free on an apparent technicality….</p><p>Andy knocked on the bedroom door. "You decent?"</p><p>"Never," Melanie said; it was their little joke, though lately the humor had mostly drained out of it.</p><p>He cracked the door open and leaned against the frame, arms folded and shoulders up around his ears. "Did you see the letter from the landlord?</p><p>She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. It's some bullshit, though. He can't <em>actually </em>raise the rent again until January."</p><p>"Oh?" Andy grimaced. "I thought — I didn't know that."</p><p>Melanie sighed. "Yeah, I'll call him in the morning and have a good shout about it."</p><p>"Good," Andy muttered. "Great. Thanks, Mel. Erm — Pete and I were going out for a pint, did you want to come—?"</p><p>Of course, Pete was still talking to Andy, because Andy would put up with him jabbering about craft beer and video games, and hadn't called him a coward for pulling out of the show. "Yeah, I'm not putting a bra back on for that," Melanie said. "Sorry."</p><p>Andy cringed. "You should — we can still be friends, can't we? We don't have to stop being friends?"</p><p>Melanie sighed, because the answer was apparently <em>no, </em>and it wasn't her fault. But they'd already gone enough rounds on that front, and she and Andy still had to live together. "I'm just really tired. Probably going to turn in early tonight."</p><p>"Okay," Andy said, looking pouty. "I'll tell Pete you said hi, yeah?"</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>Tim didn't text her back until morning, after she'd told the landlord exactly what their rights were as tenants for the third time this year. <em>We should go together. </em></p><p>It took Melanie a moment to remember what he was talking about. Keay, right. <em>Don't trust me?</em></p><p>
  <em>Don't trust HIM.</em>
</p><p>Fair enough. <em>Let me know when you're free.</em></p>
<hr/><p>The secrets of the Dread Powers were not contained in the Institute's personnel files, not that Sasha expected them to be. Those files did, however, contain information on Gertrude Robinson, and everyone who'd ever worked under her, and that was interesting all on its own, mostly for how it didn't line up.</p><p>The personnel files said Fiona Law died of liver disease, for instance. They said Sarah Carpenter had quit after some sort of accident. They said Michael Shelley had transferred to another job. But when Sasha went digging for more information on them, she came to dead end after dead end, closed bank accounts and broken leases where they seemed to have suddenly vanished. And unlike Jon, Sasha suspected that none of <em>these </em>disappearing acts would be turning up mysteriously alive and well later on.</p><p>Emma Harvey, at least, had rather conclusively died in a house fire. But the most intriguing thing was Eric Delano, who was reported missing in the eighties, never found and never officially declared dead. And digging into the details on <em>that</em> led her back to Pinhole Books, bracing herself for another verbal sparring match.</p><p>The front room of the shop was empty when she arrived, though Gerard called something unintelligible from the back, which meant he'd heard her come in. Sasha fidgeted with her purse, wishing suddenly that she'd brought more documents, more evidence, something to ensure he couldn't lie to her — though, given how smoothly he'd lied about the other things, she didn't really think any amount of evidence would be enough to force the truth out of him. But she'd run out of options, and it wasn't like George would admit to knowing anything more about the inside of the Institute than he'd already given up. (For now, anyway.)</p><p>When Gerard stepped out of the back of the office, he made it two steps before he actually raised his head and registered his presence. Then he stopped on a dime and said, "Oh, Jesus Christ."</p><p>"Hi," Sasha said, summoning all of her resolve. "Still a Reddit post?"</p><p>"What are you — oh." He sighed, and looked at the ceiling, as if the flat upstairs had any answers for him. "Of course you are."</p><p>"If you're not busy," she added, not that she actually had any intention of going away.</p><p>He rolled his eyes. "Don't you have a job?"</p><p>"Called out sick," she said. <em>Meaning I can wait all day.</em></p><p>Groaning a little, he waved her back towards the office. "Fine, fine. Whatever. At least it's not taxidermy."</p><p>Sasha didn't know what to make of that, but she followed him anyway — not to the kitchen, unlike Gertrude, but to a small back office that featured an elderly computer and a filing cabinet with a few novelty magnets stuck to the side. Spread out on the desk were some tools, rags, a couple of bottles, and in the middle, an antique lantern of some kind. Gerard had clearly been cleaning it — or perhaps restoring it? — as one panel of shutters had been removed and partly disassembled; the bronze gleamed a rich brown where the patina had been rubbed off, though there were still traces of chalky green in the seams.</p><p>The fact that those seams limned out a distinct eye motif wasn't lost on her. Nor were the tiny tattoos that covered Gerard's hands and climbed his throat. She didn't feel that psychic staring effect here, but that didn't mean much — and she couldn't afford to let it bother her either way. "So, what's the pressing question?" he asked her as he dropped into the chair, falling instantly into a dramatic slouch.</p><p>Sasha took a deep breath. "It's about Gertrude … and Eric Delano."</p><p>Instantly, Gerard's expression flipped from bored and vaguely irritated to something dark and flat. "No."</p><p>"You said I could ask you anything," she pointed out.</p><p>"I didn't say I'd <em>answer</em>, though" he said in sharp, clipped tones. "And I don't owe you any deep dives into my tragic backstory."</p><p>Damn it. "All of Gertrude's other assistants—"</p><p>"I realize you're not good at taking no for an answer," Gerard said loudly over the top of her, "but this isn't happening."</p><p>Sasha realized she was gripping her purse hard enough to leave little nail marks in the faux leather. "I could call the police on you," she blurted, though even she knew it was a bluff.</p><p>"And that would do nothing but piss me off more," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Unless you've got better leverage than that, you can see yourself out."</p><p>"I don't," she admitted, and it was probably profoundly unwise to vent her frustrations in front of someone with such obvious ties to the Beholding. But she couldn't talk to Tim anymore, she wasn't sure she'd ever been able to talk to Martin, and George — hah! For a moment her frustrations boiled over. "I've got nothing. I've tried police reports, I've tried old hospital records, I've tried Inland Revenue. I phoned people in Russia! I even got Gertrude's bloody CV from the internal HR server and tried to follow up on fifty-year-old university records! They've never even digitized those, I had to pretend to be her granddaughter and ask for a photocopy! And every single trail goes cold right where it crosses over from what I already knew to what I need to know, except for you, and her, and she's obviously not going to speak to me again, so — so I came here."</p><p>She petered out, embarrassed that she'd even given away that much. But when she glanced up, Gerard's expression had shifted again: still hostile, but tinged with a mild curiosity of his own. "University records, eh? You're good with those?"</p><p>"I mean," she said, knowing full well this wasn't the time to brag, "if it's online, I'm pretty good with it."</p><p>He stared at his toolkit and his lantern for a bit. The fingers of one hand were picking at the cloth of his shirt; he had chipped lacquer on his nails, and tattoos on his knuckles — all of them — but the skin in between was hairless and oddly textured. Almost like a burn scar. "Fuck it," he said very softly, and then he looked back to her. "Let's make a deal, yeah?"</p><p>"To do what?" she asked warily.</p><p>"You just told me you've been snooping into a load of things you shouldn't legally have access to," he said. "Which also tells me you're just morally flexible enough to potentially help me out. And in exchange …" He sighed. "In exchange, I'll answer your fucking questions about my dad."</p><p>Sasha objected to <em>morally flexible, </em>a little, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "What do you need help with?"</p><p>He pulled a notepad out of a desk drawer, and started scribbling on it. "Seven people enrolled in an anatomy tutorial at King's College during this past term. Seven people who are <em>not </em>typical students, and I need to find out as much about them as I can."</p><p>Sasha scanned the list of names he handed her with mounting incredulity. She knew placeholder data when she saw it. "John Doe?" she asked.</p><p>"That's not even the weirdest thing about them," Gerard assured her. "Gertrude got a statement, if you'll pardon the term, from their instructor, but she left the follow-up to me, and I'm trying to pin them down before they disappear."</p><p>"What for?" Sasha asked, and then immediately felt foolish. "Are they … they're monsters, aren't they?"</p><p>"They're something," Gerard said, "and if you want a dissertation on the finer manifestations of the Stranger, maybe I'll give that to you for free. But the main thing is that they're in the wind, and if the university still has their details, I want to know it."</p><p>"And then you'll tell me about Gertrude's assistants?" Sasha asked again, just to be clear.</p><p>"I'll tell you what I know," he said, "though I'll warn you, it's not much."</p><p>That was far more than she'd got so far. "Deal. But I might need your help to get to a computer I can use."</p><p>Gerard made a bit of a face at that. "Can't you just …?" He wiggled his fingers vaguely, as if typing on the air.</p><p>"I mean, maybe," Sasha said, because she'd long ago learned not to bother trying to explain things to people whose idea of hacking began and ended with <em>The Matrix</em>. "But it's easier if I have a terminal that's already connected to their intranet. And <em>that </em>will be easier if I have a distraction."</p><p>"Right." He stood up and cracked his knuckles. "Well, fortunately for you, I am <em>very </em>distracting."</p><p>"I'd noticed." She gathered her purse into her arms. "Are we going now? Do I get any time to prepare?"</p><p>"Do you need it?" he asked.</p><p>Sasha thought about it. "Not really."</p><p>He waved her towards the door. "No time like the present, then."</p>
<hr/><p>Gerard seemed surprised when Sasha led the way to the Strand campus. "I thought the medical stuff would all be at the hospital."</p><p>"The records are all digital," Sasha explained. "We just need the right log-in information and a connection to King's intranet. And I know my way around here."</p><p>He raised an eyebrow. "Undergraduate or postgraduate?"</p><p>"Undergraduate." That had all been over a decade ago, of course, and she didn't expect everything to be exactly the same. But she knew where to find department offices, and she knew all the exits, which was almost as important.</p><p>By a stroke of luck, there seemed to be some kind of department meeting going on as they arrived — she heard voices from a conference room, and a brief peek in the window revealed a woman in a patterned blouse waving at a PowerPoint presentation. She checked the schedule, which was printed on a single sheet of paper taped to the door — the Digital Humanities faculty. A quick Google on her phone gave her a name to use, and Gerard (surprisingly) agreed to her plan.</p><p>"You're devious," he added, in what sounded like an approving tone, as they traded phone numbers. "Almost wish you were on our side."</p><p>"I sort of thought everyone was on the same side," she shot back. "Us versus the monsters?"</p><p>"It'd be nice if things were that simple," he said, and disappeared into the men's toilets.</p><p>Sasha took a minute to compose her appearance — she'd been planning to visit George again after this, so she didn't think she could pull off <em>young academic, </em>but <em>nontraditional student </em>might work. Then she went into the main office for the Digital Humanities department, where — again, a stroke of luck — a single secretary was working at the front desk. Her name plaque said <em>Beth. </em></p><p>"Excuse me?" Sasha asked, aiming for an uncertain warble in her voice. Beth smiled at her reflexively. "I'm looking for Professor Devlin?"</p><p>"Her office is just down the hall," Beth said smoothly.</p><p>Sasha clutched her purse to her front. "She's not there?"</p><p>"Oh." Beth clicked through a few things on her computer screen, frowning a bit in concentration. "I'm sorry, dear, Professor Devlin's in a meeting right now."</p><p>"I had an appointment?" Sasha bit her lip for a moment. "Could I maybe wait in here for her?"</p><p>Beth sighed, but she clearly felt moved by Sasha's performance. "You'll be waiting for a fair bit, I think."</p><p>"It's okay." Sasha immediately claimed the uncomfortable steel-frame chair nearest the door. "I'm not busy or anything."</p><p>That got her a soft, pitying smile from Beth, who went right back to work in silence. Sasha made a show of toying with her phone, and in the process texted Gerard. <em>You're on.</em></p><p>He took long enough that she began to wonder if he might've ditched her, if this wasn't some kind of elaborate joke at her expense. When he did appear, he did it with a dramatic stagger against the door frame; he was, for some reason, holding a wad of paper towels to his face that looked distinctly bloodied. "Hi," he said thickly. "You got a problem with your loo."</p><p>Beth looked horrified, though it was hard to tell which made more of an impression, the words or the blood or Gerard's … everything else. "What sort of a problem?"</p><p>"Out of bog roll," Gerard said. "And some stupid git got blood everywhere." He paused. "Two. That's two problems."</p><p>And then he simply walked away.</p><p>Beth leapt to her feet to chase after him, calling, "Sir? Excuse me, sir? Are you all right—?" as he disappeared down the corridor. Which was the opening Sasha needed. She slid behind the desk, grateful to see that Beth hadn't locked her computer or logged herself out. Plugging a cheap thumb drive into the USB port, Sasha went to work.</p><p>It took less than five minutes to find a backdoor in the database that let her (well, Beth) view complete student records. Then it was just a matter of searching for the names Gerard had given her, one by one, and printing each record to a PDF on the thumb drive. By the time Beth came back, red in the face and muttering to herself, Sasha was back in her chair and playing with her phone again. <em>You good? </em>she texted to Gerard.</p><p><em>Nothing harmed but my dignity, </em>he replied.</p><p>Sasha had deliberately turned up the volume on her phone, so Beth would notice the message alert. She grimaced and gathered her things. "Erm, I've got to go?" she said to Beth. "Do you know when Professor Devlin will be done with her meeting?"</p><p>"They're booked in there until three o'clock," Beth said, not even looking up as Sasha fled.</p><p>She and Gerard rendezvoused at the Victoria Embankment Gardens. She half-expected him to actually (still?) be bleeding from some part of his body, but he didn't look too worse for wear, except for some smearing of his eye makeup. She handed over the thumb drive, telling him, "So that didn't go how I expected.</p><p>He shrugged. "People expect me to be weird, 'cause of the whole," and here he made an encompassing gesture at himself. "I can use that."</p><p>Probably a better tactic than trying to be subtle, with his appearance. Sasha was too polite to voice that. "So," she said briskly, "everything they had on file is on that drive. All seven of your made-up names."</p><p>"Ta very much," he said. He looked like he'd rather suck on a cactus than say the next thing. "So what's your question?"</p><p>Sasha took a deep breath. "So Gertrude worked for the Institute for — a really long time, longer than anyone else on the staff at the time of the fire. And everyone who ever worked under her seems to have vanished one way or another, or died. Including Eric Delano."</p><p>"What part of that is a question, exactly?" Gerard asked.</p><p>Right, she was rambling. "What happened to him?" she asked. "If — if you know."</p><p>Gerard scratched absently at his chin. "Mum killed him." Sasha couldn't help her mouth falling open, both at the statement and the casual way he said it. "Not what you were hoping to hear, was it?"</p><p>"I — I assumed Gertrude — did something," Sasha stammered.</p><p>"Nah," Gerard said. "Way Mum tells it, at least, Gertrude didn't even notice he was gone until the unfinished paperwork started piling up. Gertrude … doesn't talk about it much, herself. Doesn't dwell on things."</p><p>There was a lot to unpack from that, not the least of which was the present tense verb with <em>Mum. </em>But the comment about not dwelling rankled a bit, mainly because Sasha had had little choice but to dwell on Gertrude's things for over a year now. "Does she talk about the fire at the Institute at all?" she asked bluntly.</p><p>Gerard, who had started lighting a cigarette, paused minutely. "Not really," he said, not betraying any hesitation, but she'd seen his hands twitch just a bit. "Neither does Jon. I think they both just want to put the whole thing behind them."</p><p>That was a bid to change the subject. Sasha ignored it. "You weren't near the Institute that day, were you?"</p><p>He scoffed. "I was getting my chemo. I'll bring you a doctor's note if you like."</p><p>Oh. Well, that was a hell of an alibi. Sasha looked down at her lap, at her purse, at her hands twisting the strap like she could wring the truth out of it. "Someone set fire to the archives on purpose," she said aloud, if only to remind herself of it. "And if it wasn't Gertrude, then she knows who it was."</p><p>Once again, Gerard went very still for a moment. A subtle tell, but she could work with it. "And what makes you say that?" he asked through a mouthful of smoke.</p><p>"Because she's the only person who worked there longer than Elias Bouchard," she explained, "and he was some kind of … avatar, channel, whatever, for one those things. The whole Institute was. So what does that say about her?"</p><p>Gerard was silent for a long time, puffing on his cigarette and staring off into the middle distance. Sasha instantly regretted giving away how much she knew; if he decided she knew too much — if he turned out to be dangerous — well, they were in a public place for now, but that didn't mean he couldn't find her later—</p><p>"You know, Martin said something about you being paranoid," he finally said, bone dry, "but I don't think he said what it was you were paranoid <em>about." </em></p><p>Sasha bristled. "I'm not wrong," she snapped. "And if you're not going to help me, then I'll find proof on my own."</p><p>"What do you want me to say?" Gerard snapped back. "'Oh, yeah, she totally murdered like a hundred people'? If that were true, you think I'd still be working with her?"</p><p>"Why are you working with her, anyway?" Sasha asked, as if it wasn't obvious from the tattoos.</p><p>"I owe her a favor," he said. "And, no offense, it's gonna take a lot more fetch quests before I share that story with you."</p><p>"And what exactly does it take to repay her?" Sasha demanded. "Why are all of her assistants dead or missing?"</p><p>Gerard stood up and tossed his cigarette, only half-smoked, towards a rubbish bin. "We're done here. Thanks for the files, now never come back to my shop again."</p><p>He strode off in a flutter of trenchcoat, leaving Sasha fuming on a park bench, with little more real knowledge than she'd started with.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Wonderwall Whammy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Melanie gets in a shouting match. Gerry dispenses some advice. Jon and Martin take a walk in the city. Sasha interrogates.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They went on a weekend, when the bookshop technically wasn't open, but Tim seemed to think it would be all right. "Got it on good authority Gerard will be lurking," he told her.</p><p>"From who?" she demanded.</p><p>"Let's just say I have a man on the inside," Tim said dramatically, and rapped loudly on the shop door.</p><p>It wasn't Keay who answered, but a slight man with glasses and a scowl that seemed to be installed factory-default. "You <em>do </em>know we have hours posted for a reason," he said, in lieu of greeting.</p><p>"Also know you don't actually follow them," Tim said brightly. "Can Gerard come out and play?"</p><p>The scowling man gave Tim a jaundiced look. "He and Gertrude stepped out for a while."</p><p>So much for Tim's <em>inside man. </em>"We can wait," Melanie put in.</p><p>The scowling man seemed to notice her for the first time, and if anything, his scowl got <em>deeper. </em>"I'm sorry, who is this?" he asked.</p><p>"This is Melanie, she's helping me with some research," Tim said quickly, before she could introduce herself; she kicked him in the ankle for that. "Ow! Melanie, this is Jon, he allegedly works here."</p><p>"What's this <em>allegedly?" </em>Jon demanded.</p><p>"C'mon, what's the ratio of book selling to monster slaying you actually do?" Tim asked.</p><p>Jon sniffed. "You'd likely be surprised."</p><p>"So would I," Melanie muttered, because Jon didn't look capable of slaying a wet paper bag. He glared at her, but she raised her chin, daring him to say anything.</p><p>Tim, however, intervened again. "All right, all right. Is waiting going to be an option or not?"</p><p>Jon sighed. "I suppose. They're not usually long on this sort of errand."</p><p>The cramped, dim interior of the bookshop was certainly <em>aesthetic, </em>even if it was also probably hell on dust allergies. There was exactly one rickety chair to sit in, and Melanie was about to claim it before Tim did when yet another voice called out from a back room. "Jon? Who was — oh."</p><p>"Hi, Martin!" Tim said tightly. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Like, at all."</p><p>Another man appeared from the back, already cringing. (The same Martin who had been disparaging Sasha? Christ, Melanie couldn't keep track of this soap opera.) "Sorry," he said. "Er. Change of plans?"</p><p>"Did you tell him to show up here?" Jon asked warily.</p><p>"He wanted to talk to Gerry! I didn't know he and Gertrude were going to go—" Martin suddenly cut himself off, looking directly at Melanie when he said. "Er. Go antiquing?"</p><p>"That a metaphor for monster hunting?" Melanie asked. "Because I was promised a monster hunter."</p><p>"Right," Martin said, dragging out the vowel into a groan. "Are you — er — it's your statement Tim's investigating?"</p><p><em>"I'm </em>investigating something," she corrected him. "If anything, he's helping <em>me."</em></p><p>Tim made a vague noise of protest, but Jon suddenly looked up. "Hang on," he said. "You're Melanie <em>King?"</em></p><p>"You've heard of me?" she asked. It wouldn't be the first time she'd run into a fan of the show in the wild.</p><p>Jon's mouth twisted into a nasty grin.</p>
<hr/><p>By the time Gerard made it home, Jon and Melanie had been arguing for forty-five minutes straight.</p><p>"You did this," Tim hissed at Martin, who was looking forlorn. "You told him who she was."</p><p>"He would've figured it out on his own," Martin insisted. "And I didn't think he'd actually say all that stuff about hoaxes to her face."</p><p>Tim huffed. They'd retreated into the kitchen, which was somewhat quieter, and he assumed that if Melanie switched from verbal assault to physical, they'd be able to run out and intervene. Long enough for Jon to escape, at least. The guy looked pretty squirrely.</p><p>"Besides," Martin continued, "you're the one who brought her along."</p><p>"She'd have come over on her own if I hadn't."</p><p>"Just saying," Martin said, in a tone that indicated he was clearly not <em>just </em>saying anything. "You've been neck-deep in her statement for, what, a month now? Maybe it's time to move on to another project." He paused significantly. "Like the ones I've left in your inbox, maybe?"</p><p>Tim winced. He hadn't been <em>quite </em>as fixated on this as Sasha had been on … whatever it was she was doing. (He'd tried to open up to her, to fix what he'd broken when they first found out about the monsters, but she just shut him down again.) But the inbox had been piling up. "I might as well file it and move on," Tim agreed. "Get back to normal."</p><p>"Would be nice if I knew what that was anymore," Martin said morosely.</p><p>The sound of Jon and Melanie sniping at each other was suddenly joined by Gerard yelling "Children! Children! What, pray tell, the <em>fuck?"</em></p><p>Tim scrambled out of the kitchen as Jon proclaimed. "We have a very esteemed visitor! She's personally faked over eighty hauntings."</p><p>"Shove the entire canon of academic literature up your arse," Melanie suggested.</p><p>Tim bodily placed himself between the two of them. "We just wanted to ask you some questions," he said loudly. "Won't take a moment."</p><p>Gerard was holding a bin bag over his shoulder and a gallon jug of something in his hand. He sighed. "Fine. Long as you don't mind talking while I work."</p><p>"Not sure they've got anything worth listening to," Jon said, just loudly enough to be clearly audible. Melanie <em>growled, </em>and Tim steered her towards the stairs as quick as he could.</p><p>Gerard led them right up onto the roof of the building, which sported a charming arrangement of camp chairs that probably weren't in compliance with the building code. There was also a metal rubbish bin, into which Gerard emptied his bin bag. An assortment of broken, splintered mannequin parts fell out — arms, legs, a featureless head, others too broken to identify. Bag empty, he cracked open the jug, which (judging by the smell) was some kind of paint thinner. He poured the whole thing into the bin, and then sat down in one of the camp chairs.</p><p>"Okay," he said. "Questions. You've got them."</p><p>"Yeah," Melanie said, still eying the bin. "Er. I had a question about your mum?"</p><p>He snorted. "Mum's with Gertrude. Not sure when <em>they're </em>returning to the homestead."</p><p>"So your mum's not dead?" Tim hazarded. (He hadn't dared ask Martin this; if Martin had been sharing a flat with some kind of ghost without realizing it, Tim did <em>not </em>want to be responsible for the revelation.)</p><p>"Oh, she's <em>extremely </em>dead," Gerard replied.</p><p>"That's … interesting," Tim said, and to his credit, his voice didn’t even crack.</p><p>"How'd she die?" Melanie asked quickly.</p><p>He smiled tightly. "Suicide."</p><p>Melanie opened her mouth, but Tim didn't want to get sidetracked, and he definitely didn't want to get kicked out before they got their questions properly answered. "That's not exactly what we've come here for, though."</p><p>Gerard rolled his eyes. "Hope not. Could've answered that one over the phone."</p><p>"We want to know more about the Trophy Room," Melanie said. "And <em>not </em>just a bunch of shouting about how we're amateurs and all that. Real answers."</p><p>Gerard gave her a searching look. "Do you, now?"</p><p>"I know you're working on something related to circuses," Tim added. "And taxidermy. And whatever —" he waved at hand and the can of assorted mannequin parts — "<em>that </em>is. They're all connected to one of those entities you talked about. Smirke called it the Stranger?"</p><p>That got Gerard's attention properly. He leaned forward in his camp chair, elbows on knees. "Why are you so keen to stick your noses in this?"</p><p>"Because we want to understand it," Melanie said. "We've both seen things — not just at the Trophy Room. And we need to know what it was. <em>I </em>need to know."</p><p>"No, you don't," Gerard said, and lit a cigarette in spite of the paint thinner.</p><p>"Fuck you," Melanie blurted, her internal rage reserves apparently not at all depleted by her spat with Jon. "And fuck your gatekeeping bullshit!"</p><p>"It's not gatekeeping," Gerard said. “It has nothing to do with how <em>worthy</em> you are.” He looked more tired than anything as he let the cigarette smoke trail out of his mouth. "I’m telling you, you don't <em>need </em>to know. You won't die from it. You can write this off as a fucked up thing that happened once, and walk away. If you’re lucky, maybe you'll even forget about it."</p><p>"I don't want to forget it," Tim said sharply, though even he knew that was only half true — he didn't want to forget Danny, not even those horrid final moments. Grimaldi, though? He could do without.</p><p>Gerry stabbed a finger in his direction. "Okay. So you keep digging. You look for answers and they just keep producing more questions. You want to know about some circus, so you go to the taxidermist's. You want to know about the taxidermist, so you start looking into some wax museum. There's always another thing to see, some other question to answer, and the more you look for, the more you're going to find. The more nightmares you're gonna have. The more scars. That's the thing about these fuckers, finding out the truth doesn't make it any better. It doesn’t <em>heal</em> you. Just gives you more shit to be scared of."</p><p>"So why tell us any of it?" Tim asked. "You didn't have to tell us about Prentiss or Smirke. You didn't have to hand over those books. Why share anything, if it's all so <em>things man was not meant to know?"</em></p><p>Gerry shrugged, and puffed his cigarette some more. "Honestly? I figured you'd cause more trouble running around not knowing anything, than if we told you just enough to shut you up. Which I realize I was <em>extremely </em>wrong about, but, y'know, hindsight."</p><p>"You're not shutting us up," Melanie said fiercely. "I'm not going to let this go. I—"</p><p>"What, you're gonna put it on your YouTube channel?" Gerard said. "Good luck digitizing the film. Good luck telling the whole world we're feedstock for Cthulhu and having anyone actually believe it, for that matter. Nobody <em>wants</em> to believe it. No matter what evidence you show them." Again, he paused for the cigarette. "And honestly, they're probably happier than us, so maybe they've got the right of it."</p><p>"You can't just do nothing!" she insisted.</p><p>Gerry sighed. "I am doing something, okay? I'm doing a <em>lot </em>of somethings, potentially save-the-world scale somethings. And you know what my reward is? A criminal record and way too many trips to the A&amp;E." He waved a hand vaguely at the two of them. "Again, I'm not saying you're <em>unworthy </em>or any of that bullshit. I'm saying you've got a choice, and my personal take is that the knowledge isn't worth the grief it's going to bring you."</p><p>Melanie piped up again, more slowly this time, "But it is our choice. And it's not like we have any way to decide if not knowing is going to hurt worse than knowing."</p><p>"There is that," Gerry said wearily. "So, if you too wish to be traumatized and awkward at parties, you can come join the club. I'll answer anything. But do take the time to decide if it's worth it, yeah?"</p><p>He punctuated this by tossing what was left of his cigarette into the rubbish bin, causing the paint thinner to ignite. Tim pulled the front of his jumper over his nose as noxious smoke began to pour out of the can. "Hell of a way to end an argument," Melanie said acidly, backing away towards the stairs.</p><p>They ducked out of the shop; Jon and Martin had, thankfully, departed already, so Melanie didn't have anyone else to scream at. Back on the street, she turned to Tim and asked, "So? What do you think?"</p><p>He could only shrug. "I don't know? It's … a lot to think about."</p><p>She cocked her head to one side. "So you believe him. About how fucked up all this stuff is."</p><p>"You saw the thing in the Trophy Room, too," Tim reminded her.</p><p>"Yeah." She dropped her gaze and started fiddling with her phone a bit. "I should — my flatmate and I had this thing, with our landlord…"</p><p>"Your flatmate who was also your co-host?" She nodded. "How's … all of that?"</p><p>She barked out a laugh. "Not great!"</p><p>Tim cringed. Maybe Gerard had a point and maybe he didn't, but it was hard to think about the dark secret laws of the universe when there were also jobs and landlords and all the mundane business of life to be going on with. "I guess … I'll see you around, then?" he offered.</p><p>Melanie stopped short, as if she hadn't realized — but they didn't have any reason to meet up after this, did they? They'd hit a dead end in tracking down Sarah Baldwin, and Tim had promised Martin to file the statement and move on … "Yeah," she said awkwardly. "I guess."</p><p>"Just … be careful?" Tim added, because he certainly couldn't <em>stop </em>her from doing her own investigation, or making her own choice whether to take up Gerard Keay on his offer or not. “Er… Let me know if you, I dunno. Need backup, I guess.” Truth be told, he didn’t particularly want to be anyone’s midnight phone call when there were skin-stealing clowns on the table, but it was literally the least he could offer.</p><p>She nodded. "You, too."</p><p>Melanie took the Tube back to wherever she was going, and Tim decided to spring for a cab. He spent the ride back to his flat staring out the window, thinking about everything and certain about nothing.</p>
<hr/><p>As soon as Gerry got back from his mystery errand, they were free to leave the shop; Jon distracted himself on the bus by explaining in exhaustive detail exactly why the likes of Melanie King were an insult to serious scholarship on the paranormal. Martin nodded along, and only yawned once.</p><p>"Sorry," Jon said as he ran out of steam.</p><p>Martin waved him off. "It's fine. Just short on sleep lately."</p><p>"We don't have to do this today…"</p><p>"Yeah, we do," Martin said firmly.</p><p>Jon sighed. "Well, sorry for rambling."</p><p>He nudged Jon with his elbow in response. "Don't be. I like listening to you talk."</p><p>Oh. Well, then. Jon hoped he didn't look as stupidly pleased by that as he felt.</p><p>That feeling carried him all the way to Trafalgar Square, whereupon he remembered what they were doing and why. Martin let him stand there like an idiot for a bit, staring at the crowds of tourists, which was, after all, why they'd chosen this location and this time of day. After a moment, Martin prodded gently, "How d'you want to do this?"</p><p>"I don't <em>want </em>to do any of this," Jon reminded him, and for once Martin seemed to know not to take it personally. He just nudged Jon with his elbow, and Jon sighed, and approached a busker who was laboring her way through Adele's oeuvre with more enthusiasm than talent. "What should I ask for?" he whispered to Martin.</p><p>"Carly Rae Jepsen?"</p><p>"I don't know who that is."</p><p>"Does that matter?"</p><p>The busker noticed them, and smiled in their direction as she wrapped up a song. Jon tossed a handful of change into her guitar case, and then took a deep breath, reaching for the power in his head.</p><p><strong>"Play Carly Rae Jepsen,"</strong> he said.</p><p>Her smile turned into an exaggerated pout. "Sorry, mate. I could do some Taylor Swift, if you like?"</p><p>"N-no," Jon stammered. "That's fine. Sorry."</p><p>The next two buskers he tried also politely declined, even when he was careful to ask for a song he knew. Jon couldn't deny it was a relief. He wasn't some kind of nightmarish puppeteer of others' wills; he wasn't even particularly persuasive. Perhaps whatever he'd done to Martin had been a fluke?</p><p>He voiced this thought to Martin, who spent a minute lost in thought. "I was touching you," he pointed out. "When you, er, when you whammied me."</p><p>"Whammy?" Jon choked. "No. We're not calling it a <em>whammy."</em></p><p>"Well, what else would you call it?" Martin didn't give him any time to answer. "But remember, I had my hand on your arm. Maybe contact makes it easier?"</p><p>"I'm not going to go around groping strangers," Jon protested. "And anyway, I'm running out of cash."</p><p>"Nobody's saying you have to grope anybody. Here." Martin passed Jon a fiver from his own wallet and pointed to the last busker on this side of the square, who was, for reasons knowable only to himself, wearing a gorilla mask and playing Beatles songs on a ukulele. "Hand him that. Like actually hand it, don't just drop it in his box—"</p><p>"Right, yes, fine."</p><p>Jon took a deep breath, and approached the gorilla. He held the cash out, stiff-armed and awkward, until the gorilla broke off from playing "Here Comes the Sun" to look at him. They stared at each other, or at least Jon stared into the eye holes of the gorilla mask and the mask remained pointed in his direction.</p><p>The busker, tentatively, reached out for the money, and Jon managed to press their fingers together. In that brief moment of contact, he blurted out the only thing he could think of. <strong>"Play Wonderwall."</strong></p><p>The gorilla man tucked the money into his shirt pocket, and did just that.</p><p>Martin towed Jon away from the scene of the crime, snickering a little. "Oh my god. Oh, my god, why are you using memes to invoke your superpowers. You do know that's a meme, right?"</p><p>"I know it's a meme," Jon said. "And they're not superpowers."</p><p>"Fine, eldritch horror powers, whatever." Martin looked back over his shoulder and squinted. "That was — I mean, he wasn't just taking a request, was he?"</p><p>"I don't think so?" Jon had felt a slight difference, when he issued the — the order (not a <em>whammy, </em>Christ) but he couldn't be sure. It wasn't as if buskers didn't sometimes take requests, after all. This is why experimental rigor mattered, damn it. "I need a cigarette."</p><p>"So go ask for one." Martin nodded at a cluster of people smoking on the steps of the National Gallery. "Unless your head—?"</p><p>"No, no … fine."</p><p>This time, Jon tried to act as his own control. He chose an altogether too stylish young woman with a violet buzzcut, and asked to bum a cigarette in what he hoped was a non-threatening, non-obnoxious, and definitely non-mind-controlling tone. She looked at him like something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Sorry, I don't smoke," she said, without removing the lit cigarette from her mouth.</p><p>Jon caught her arm as she turned away, feeling like a massive tool as he did so. <strong>"Just one cigarette," </strong>he pleaded.</p><p>For a moment her eyes went a bit distant, and he thought he could feel the — request? Hardly a command — settle in. But then one of her friends shoved him, none too gently, and the moment passed "Hey, piss off! She said no."</p><p>Data points, Jon thought, as he beat a hasty retreat. All data points.</p><p>"It's a suggestion, not a command," he explained to Martin, once he'd finally gotten that cigarette. "I can feel it bounce off, if they're not, I dunno, receptive."</p><p>"Guess I'm the most receptive guy around," Martin said, and then suddenly flushed scarlet. Jon's heart skipped a beat, and he looked down at his cigarette rather than tempt himself to read anything into Martin's facial journey. "I — I mean. Erm. Does that, do you still think this is coming from the Web? Doesn't seem very fear-inspiring."</p><p>"I don't know," Jon admitted. "It still doesn't seem clearly <em>not </em>the Web, or the Eye for that matter. And it still doesn't explain why either entity would keep me alive just on the chance I'd develop these powers later…"</p><p>"Maybe you're a sleeper agent," Martin said, in a tone that clearly suggested he thought the idea was laughable.</p><p>Jon's stomach plummeted at the thought, though. What could be more in tune with the Web than implanting some horrible directive in Jon's head and hiding it, letting him think for years he was free and uncontrolled, only to suddenly yank everything back and make him its instrument—</p><p>"Oh god, no, stop that," Martin said, and shook Jon's arm gently. "I didn't mean it, okay? Forget I said anything."</p><p>"It's a possibility," Jon said.</p><p>"It was a bad joke!" He groaned. "And you're going to spend the next three days giving yourself an ulcer over it, aren't you?"</p><p>"No, Martin, I'm going to just ignore the worst thing that could possibly happen to me," Jon growled. He tried to raise his cigarette to his mouth again, but froze when he realized Martin still had his hand on his forearm, just above the cuff of his jacket.</p><p>Martin seemed to realize at the same moment, too. He didn't move his hand. "Maybe … maybe I can distract you?" he said, in a wobbly voice, with that up-turned chin.</p><p>Jon was already immediately distracted by his pounding heart. "What did you have in mind?"</p><p>"What would you say to a cup of coffee?"</p><p>"I—" Jon coughed a bit on the sudden dryness in his mouth. "I think I would say yes."</p><p>Martin beamed at him. It wasn't a great distraction, of course, not for the long run, but for now? It was definitely working.</p>
<hr/><p>George had been receiving visitors.</p><p>He generally didn't meet with Sasha in the same room twice, but he rotated through a set of them, and though he was careful with his rubbish, her eyes were sharp. She took notes, as he held forth about the Entities and their manifestations, and not all of them were based on what he said.</p><p>She knew he probably didn't spend all his time in the tunnels. He was always showered, usually clean-shaven, and his clothes were shabby but fastidiously clean; he had to have access to proper running water. He was a thin man, but not unhealthily so, and she spotted food wrappers and cigarette butts different to the ones she'd brought him. Either he was doing his own shopping on the sly, or someone else was bringing him groceries and toiletries.</p><p>And today there were papers in his inner pocket. She could hear them crinkle a bit when he moved, and once during an expansive gesture she glimpsed the folded sheets poking past his lapel. "....separate fingers, but one hand," he was explaining. "Only we are too small to perceive Them in Their wholeness."</p><p>Sasha nodded. "Makes sense. Emotions aren't tidy, discrete things, so their otherworldly echoes shouldn't be, either. Sort of a spectrum?"</p><p>George beamed at her. "Precisely. So any taxonomy constructed by humans is at least partly artificial…"</p><p>She couldn't sit through any more dissections of Smirke's Fourteen. Instead, she opened her notebook to a new page, and cleared her throat until George paused. "I actually had a question for you? I think it's rather important."</p><p>"Go ahead," he said generously.</p><p>"What were you doing inside the Magnus Institute?"</p><p>He blinked at the question, and his face fell like a calving glacier. "I — I'm sure I don't know what you mean—"</p><p>"You've got very distinctive shoes," Sasha pointed out. "Custom-made, I bet? And so old that if there ever was a stamp or a logo in the sole, it's long worn away. That sticks out, compared to regular mass-produced footwear. You left footprints in the archives, and there's soot on your shoes even now."</p><p>George chuckled uneasily; he sounded a bit sick. "You are — a remarkable woman, Miss James."</p><p>"And I'm willing to bet you've got a statement in your pocket."</p><p>He touched his coat, seemingly unaware of the movement, or at least unable to stop himself. "I — yes. I am forced to enter the Institute from time to time."</p><p>"Forced by whom?"</p><p>"Someone I am not at liberty to discuss," he said firmly.</p><p>"Is it Gertrude Robinson?"</p><p>"Gertrude Robinson is dead."</p><p>Sasha nodded. "I might've believed you if you pretended you didn't know who that was," she explained. "But she would've needed help, setting a fire that big, and all her assistants were gone. And to get out of the Institute without being seen or leaving a trail meant she probably came down here."</p><p>George, flustered, folded his arms across his chest. The paper crunched loudly. "I don't know what you're accusing me of—"</p><p>"I'm not accusing <em>you </em>of anything," she said. "But she set fire to the archives once. And the one time we spoke, she asked an awful lot of pointed questions about the Institute and its director. It used to be a temple of the Eye, and now it's — something else, isn't it? And I don't think she likes that very much."</p><p>Something wry twisted George's mouth. "You know, I think she'd like you."</p><p>Sasha forced a smile back. "I'm sure she doesn't."</p><p>George looked away from her, shifting uneasily in his chair. Apparently he felt that if he kept his arms crossed, she'd forget about the statement. "I told you when we met that I'm being hunted," he said, in a slightly whining tone. "I hardly leave these tunnels anymore. It isn't safe. I rely on her for supplies, but she doesn't help me out of altruism. Nor do you, of course, I see that now…"</p><p>"What do you do for her?" Sasha asked, heroically resisting the urge to roll her eyes.</p><p>"I procure things from inside your Institute for her," George admitted. "Books, documents. Occasionally items from Artefact Storage. I thought, perhaps, with your help, I might be able to say no to her more often. Stop taking such unnecessary risks."</p><p>"How much of a risk is it, really?" The building was largely empty even during the day, and no one worked in the basement anymore. The interior CCTV wasn't even running.</p><p>"Any time I leave these tunnels is a risk," he insisted. "And Gertrude — she has concerns, lately, about your director."</p><p>The director. It was almost funny — it hadn't even registered when Gertrude was questioning her, back in March. She'd never thought twice about the man behind the emails, issuing orders and gathering up statements and doing God-knows-what with them. But suddenly, maybe because of the strange atmosphere of the tunnels or George's Leitners or just sheer dumb luck — suddenly she was thinking about about it properly, and it all seemed … ludicrous. Sinister. "He's not another Beholding … thing, is he?" she asked, dread coiling in her belly.</p><p>George shook his head. "No. If that were true, he'd be quite aware of my comings and goings, and probably taken action against me. No, he's … something else, I suspect. Though I have no great eagerness to find out <em>what."</em></p><p>Sasha <em>did</em> want to find out, if only to get one step ahead of Gertrude. She'd been willing to kill once before to purge the Institute, after all. And if the director was messing with their heads to boot... "Nobody <em>sees </em>the director," she told George, hoping he'd have some insight. "He stays in his office all day — I've never even seen him enter or leave the building, now that I think about it. He sends emails, if he needs something, or sometimes calls on the phone — but hardly anyone actually meets with him face to face, and they never talk about it afterwards."</p><p>That got a thoughtful look. "I suppose the Isolation — the Lukas family were donors to the Institute for many years, as I understand it."</p><p>"Not anymore," Sasha explained. "I've looked at the financials. After the fire, the Institute lost a lot of donors."</p><p>"Then I'm afraid I don't know," George said. "Nor am I interested in crossing whatever power he does represent. I used to think I could atone —"</p><p>He cut himself off with a tremendous sigh, and Sasha let him. Instead, she asked, "Will you at least show me what statement she wanted from you? I won't even take it, I just want to see."</p><p>He flinched; maybe he'd hoped that she'd forgotten about it. But, with obviously slow movements, he pulled the folded document from his pocket and smoothed it on the table. Then he passed it over to her.</p><p>She unfolded the paper, and found herself re-reading the statement of Carlos Vittery regarding his arachnophobia.</p><p>"Thank you," Sasha told him, and passed it back. "I'll bring around your usual when I get the chance."</p><p>"I hope I was at least enlightening to you?" George asked.</p><p>"Maybe," Sasha said, though in truth she wasn't sure at all. She'd been so busy chasing Gertrude she hadn't even noticed something else sinister right under her damned nose… "I hope so."</p><p>“That is, I suppose, all we can do in the end,” George said, with the air of a ponderous university professor.</p><p>Sasha nodded along with the platitude, and gathered her things to go. She suddenly had a lot more to investigate.</p><p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Plenty of Choices</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha steps in it. Jon receives a delivery. Gerry has it out with Gertrude. Martin signs for a package.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha stewed over the dual question of Gertrude and the director for days before she realized something. Not what was currently influencing the Institute, though she knew now for certain that <em>something </em>was. Whether it was Lonely or Corruption or Web, though, she shouldn't say.</p><p>But there was one person who <em>did </em>see the director, and reasonably often, and had been affected rather directly by Carlos Vittery's statement. And since they all theoretically worked in the same office, it shouldn't have been a great deal of trouble to actually catch him.</p><p>Sasha had been growing increasingly uneasy about being inside the Institute, lately. She blamed the Entities, or rather, her own sudden awareness of whatever Entity was lurking inside the place. Sometimes it seemed like she could literally <em>feel </em>it, the same sort of fleeting unclean sensation as walking through an unseen cobweb. It was almost enough to send her searching to jobs.ac.uk in search of vacancies. Almost.</p><p>(Though that might not be a bad idea, she realized, as she considered the state of her work email. If all else failed, she could probably get herself an audience with the director simply by continuing to ignore Amy from HR, who <em>just had a few questions</em> about Sasha's recent spate of personal days and sick leave.)</p><p>Martin barged into the office late, as usual, with a pastry hanging out of his mouth. He actually did a double-take when he saw her at her desk. "Good morning," Sasha said, trying not to wince at the implication.</p><p>"Morning," Martin said around his pastry. He removed it as he juggled his bag and keys and cheap take-away coffee at his desk. Times must be troubled if Martin was resorting to coffee. "I was starting to wonder if you still worked here."</p><p>"I've been busy," Sasha said.</p><p>Martin huffed. "With what? 'Cause it definitely hasn't been work."</p><p>She hadn't anticipated such a hostile start, and it put her off her footing. "I've just had a lot on my mind," she said defensively. "Haven't we all?"</p><p>"Some of us still manage to make it into the office," he said, and sat down rather pointedly with his back to her.</p><p>Sasha sighed. So maybe it wasn't just HR that she'd managed to piss off these past few weeks. She decided to try a different tactic. "You're right. It's not fair of me to disappear like that. You and Tim deserve—"</p><p>But Martin scoffed loudly into his coffee. "Tim's almost as bad as you are," he said sourly.</p><p>That was … new information to her, honestly, but she'd been trying to respect Tim's boundaries. Sasha rubbed her temples and tried again. "Martin, I'm trying to get myself together, okay? I'm sorry I haven't been here, but I am now."</p><p>He sighed, and deflated a bit. "All right. Fine. But you'd better have a good excuse, because Amy has been looking for you—"</p><p>"I know, I know." She scowled down at her phone. Why couldn't getting information just be simple?</p><p>Martin also picked up a stack of folders from his desk — he had a lot of them, actually, enough to overflow his inbox — and flopped them onto hers. "And if you're really going to be back for good, you can give me a hand with these."</p><p>Sasha gingerly opened one of the folders and was hit by the smell of scorched paper. Another ruined statement. The next was the same, and the one after that. Of course, it was the same thing they'd been working on for months, but suddenly she had more questions that she could keep quiet about. "What are you doing with so many of these?"</p><p>"My job," he said, in clipped tones. "And yours. And half of Tim's, though at least he's started pulling his own weight again."</p><p>"Did the director tell you to take all this on?" she asked, spotting her opening.</p><p>"He did, yes."</p><p>She flipped through another folder; the fragments of this statement were so small that there were hardly any complete sentences to work from. "What else has he had to say lately?"</p><p>She thought it was an innocuous question, but Martin glared at her again. "What? You gonna accuse him of — of tax fraud or something? Pretend he's in on the whole conspiracy?"</p><p>"I didn't say that," she said, even though that was very close to what she was about to suggest. "I was just asking a question."</p><p>"But it's never just a question with you, is it?" Martin demanded. "You've always got your games and your theories and your … whatever."</p><p>"And <em>you're </em>the only person in this building the director ever meets with," Sasha snapped, patience fracturing. "Or hadn't you noticed?"</p><p>He laughed at her; it was an ugly sound. "There you go again, another paranoid fantasy. Is there anyone who's <em>not </em>out to get you at the moment? Or do we have to wait another week?"</p><p>"Martin, something is not right with this place," she insisted. "You don't think it was a coincidence that the director gave you a statement that put you right in Jane Prentiss's path?"</p><p>"Are you <em>listening </em>to yourself?" he shot back, instead of answering.</p><p>"Fine." She turned back to her own desk and picked up her phone. "Maybe I'll ask Jon, then. I'm sure you've told him all about your meetings with the director, after all."</p><p>Martin leapt suddenly to his feet. Sasha rarely thought of him as a particularly tall man, but she was acutely aware at that moment that he was taller than her, and broad-shouldered. "Leave. Him. Alone."</p><p>She sunk her nails into the arm rests of her chair. "Then tell me about the director."</p><p>Martin braced his hands on the end of her desk; he loomed over her. "Fine. I meet with the director and I tell him that everything is okay, and the work's going well, and my officemates are definitely not running off doing God knows what instead of the job they're getting a paycheck for. Maybe he believes me, maybe he doesn't, but either way he assigns me statements to recover. I take them back here, and I try to piece them back together, even though I've got no help, and they give me nightmares, and on the off chance I do get something coherent put together? That just means I have to do another one. But I can't <em>actually </em>afford to lose this job, so I keep quiet about it, and try to put on a brave face, and apparently the reward I get is you swanning in here for the first time in weeks, accusing me of — of — I don't even know what! And threatening to spread rumors about me to my friends if I don't play along with your delusions. Is that your answer? Is that what you wanted to hear?"</p><p>Sasha looked into his eyes; they were bloodshot, and the thin skin below them was dark and puffy. She looked away. "I'm sorry, Martin."</p><p>He sighed heavily. "'Course you are. I'm going to — I'm just gonna go." He snatched his bag and a handful of files off his desk, and stormed out of the office without looking at her again.</p><p>Once she was sure he wasn't coming back in, Sasha let herself slump, and buried her face in her hands. This wasn't working. There was too much for her to keep track of, too many moving parts — what else was she going to let slip?</p><p>"Do you even know he's lying to you?"</p><p>Sasha spun around, heart in her throat. Michael was standing behind her, leaned casually against a wall, or possibly … through it? The angles didn't seem to line up properly when she blinked at them. It was smiling, studying the ends of its long, long fingers as though examining a manicure. "Who let you in here?" she stammered, wishing suddenly for the weight of her big torch in her hand.</p><p>"'Let'?" Michael echoed. When it laughed, it instantly gave Sasha a headache. "I'm afraid that isn't how this works."</p><p>She needed to get back on the right footing here- And now, finally, she had leverage. "Then tell me how it does work, <em>Michael Shelley," </em>she snapped.</p><p>It froze for a minute, kaleidoscope eyes going wide. "Ah. That <em>is </em>a name."</p><p>"Yeah," Sasha said. "It's <em>your</em> name, or it was. I found your old personnel file. 'Transferred to the Lukyanenko Institute in Arkhangelsk.' Except that's not what really happened, is it?"</p><p>Michael chuckled again, the sound somehow <em>twisting </em>the air around them. "Well done. Your becoming appears to be right on schedule."</p><p>She didn't take the bait. "What did Gertrude Robinson do to you? Because that's why you steered me towards the tunnels, isn't it? She did something to you, and now you want revenge."</p><p>"So many questions," it purred, though the smile had slipped from its face. "Some of them are even good ones. But you're forgetting something."</p><p>"Am I?"</p><p>It leaned in close to whisper to her, until its face filled her field of vision. There was no sensation of breath, only the sound. "I lie, Sasha James. I <em>am </em>a lie. I have no choice but to obey my nature."</p><p>She swallowed, staring into the ever-changing spirals of its eyes. "Michael Shelley wasn't a lie. I found him. He was real."</p><p>"He was." It straightened to its full, incredible height, and retreated; for the first time Sasha realized there was a doorway behind it, a door that shouldn't have existed leading through the wall of their office. "And Gertrude had plenty of choices. I wonder what she's choosing now?"</p><p>As it backed through the doorway, Sasha caught just a glimpse of a curving corridor — an impossible corridor — because that wall faced the exterior of the building. Then the door slammed shut, and then it somehow slammed into itself, vanishing without a trace. Leaving her alone, with a load of unanswered questions, and one ominous implication.</p><p>If Gertrude had been willing to kill to stop the Beholding before, what was she willing to do about the Institute's current occupant?</p>
<hr/><p>Gerry made it down the stairs just as the two massive deliverymen were shouldering their way into the shopfront, bearing what looked like a large, broad coffee table wrapped in plastic and brown packing paper. Jon hovered around them like a sort of distressed hummingbird, making various abortive gestures and stammering about how he hadn’t <em>ordered</em> anything to be delivered. The men were ignoring him resolutely, communicating mostly through grunts and small jerks of the head where would be the best place to set the table down, which of course turned out to be the very center of the walkway. It went down with a resolute <em>thunk</em>, as if audibly announcing its unmanageable heaviness.</p><p>Jon looked up at Gerry on the stairwell and spread his arms helplessly. “I told them it isn’t mine!”</p><p><em>“Oi,”</em> Gerry called loudly, even though the men were only a meter or so away. “What’s this about?”</p><p>Slowly — <em>disconcertingly</em> slowly, the two men turned in unison to look at him, and Gerry understood why Jon hadn’t resorted to raising his own voice; either one of them could probably deadlift him over their heads without breaking a sweat. They wore their caps low, casting strange shadows across their faces even in the fully lit shop. “Delivery for Jonathan Sims,” one of them said, in a deep Cockney accent as thick as treacle.</p><p>Gerry had faced up to worse threats at the tender age of twelve, but he could still tell there was something <em>off</em> about this pair, so he took the diplomatic route, folding his arms and observing evenly, “He’s just told you, he hasn’t arranged for any delivery.”</p><p>The other man gave a hulking shrug. “We don’t handle the orders,” he said, in a voice like Dick Van Dyke with roid rage.</p><p>“We just deliver,” confirmed the first one.</p><p>His partner nodded, resolute. “If we’ve brought something for you...”</p><p><em>“It’s yours,”</em> the two of them finished in unison.</p><p>Gerry opened his mouth, but to his mild surprise, Jon got there first. “All right, but listen, if you could just double-check the registry...? Maybe that would clear things up, I mean we’ve got nowhere to <em>put</em> this thing, so — I — I’m <em>sure</em> it’s not for me.”</p><p>The men turned to look at him just as eerily slow as they had turned toward Gerry, and Jon swallowed uncomfortably. “If you could please just <strong>check</strong>,” he suggested again. “It can’t possibly do any harm.”</p><p>And then, bizarrely, one of them, whose small embroidered nametag read <em>Breekon</em> now that it was visible, drew an ancient, battered clipboard seemingly from thin air. He flipped through it lazily, licking his thumb between each of three creased pages before he ran the tip of his forefinger down what was presumably a list. Breekon grunted, and nudged his counterpart. “Eh. Look at that.”</p><p>The other one shuffled around to look, and Gerry caught a glimpse of his nametag too: <em>Hope.</em> “Huh. Look at that,” Hope repeated. They turned to Jon in unison again: “It’s not yours, innit.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jon said, looking deeply relieved. “That’s what I was trying to-”</p><p>“This one’s yours,” Hope interrupted, and drew something small and metal out of his pocket. He tossed it at Jon, who, infamous around the shop for his terrible coordination, flinched and let it bounce off his chest, clattering to the floor.</p><p>“What the hell, mate?” Gerry demanded, a reflex that overrode his diplomatic strategy, but Breekon and Hope were back to ignoring the two of them again, hefting the bulky table up between them and starting to maneuver it back down the stairs.</p><p>“Honest mistake, that,” he heard Breekon (or possibly Hope) say conversationally in the stairwell, not sounding out of breath in the slightest. “Same manufacturer.”</p><p>Gerry trailed after them, puzzled, but they were powerfully efficient at moving packages, as if they’d been doing this for a hundred years. In no time at all they had it back out on the street, and headed away towards their truck across the avenue without so much as a passing glance for oncoming cars. <em>Well,</em> Gerry thought, latching the door a bit indignantly behind them, <em>at least they’ve fucked off.</em></p><p>“So what was your mystery gift?” He asked Jon when he was back within earshot. “A novelty salt shaker? Tin of eyeshadow? Breath mints?”</p><p>Jon was frowning at the thing in his hand, disgruntled. He held it out to Gerry. “Look. I didn’t order it, I swear.”</p><p>It was a lighter. Not a plain one, either, but the high end metal engraved kind. Etched onto the body of it was a fine, intricate spiderweb pattern.</p><p>Gerry looked up at Jon, alarmed, because as a rule none of them besides Gertrude really fucked with the Web, but Jon only looked dimly disappointed. “I-I’m trying to quit,” he said, sheepish. “No idea where this could have come from.”</p><p>“You’re trying to quit?” Gerry blinked. He hadn’t mentioned that before.</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” Jon nodded. “You remember how Martin hated the smell… I just thought it was time, it was a bad habit from uni, anyway. I’m getting too old for it.”</p><p>That was how they’d first gotten to know each other, back when Jon was freshly installed on the couch at Pinhole himself. They’d gone up to the roof to smoke at the same time, first only once, then once a day, and then almost subconsciously adjusting their schedules around each other. Gerry had been missing him strangely of late, even though that was ridiculous — He was just downstairs. But he’d thought Jon was busy, not <em>quitting.</em></p><p>Obviously it was stupid to be upset, absolutely ludicrous. Smoking was shit for your health. It had made chemo nearly twice as much of a living hell. Gerry had only kept it up out of stubbornness, really, because he hadn’t got <em>lung</em> cancer, and because it was the only time out of his day that he felt actually belonged to him. But Jon quitting didn’t mean he was cutting Gerry <em>out </em>somehow, so it shouldn’t feel like that. It shouldn’t. He was only… Moving on, or something, or — Oh, Christ.</p><p>“You okay?” Jon was peering at him, confused, which was often his brand of concern. Gerry shook himself, because here he was having a whole bloody <em>episode</em> about something totally inconsequential while Jon was standing around holding a glaring token of <em>mind control incarnate.</em></p><p>“... Maybe you’d better let me have that,” he suggested, keeping his voice very purposefully even. “If you’re quitting and all. You know?”</p><p>“Oh — Sure, yeah.” Jon offered it out, and dropped it into Gerry’s waiting palm without hesitation. “That makes sense. Er, thank you, actually.” He gave Gerry one of his crooked, sincere smiles. “That’s quite thoughtful.”</p><p>“Cheers,” Gerry replied, forcing himself to sound airy. “Good luck with it, yeah? Now if you could hold the fort for just a second, I’ve got a question for Gertrude.”</p><p>“It’s my shift,” Jon pointed out. “You can go chat her up over tea if you want to.”</p><p>“Don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Gerry muttered, stalking up the stairs toward her room.</p><p>Gerry didn't bother knocking, but did the next best thing, which was shouldering the door open obnoxiously hard so that it dragged against the floor for the full rotation of its hinges, creaking and grinding in protest. By the time he actually stepped into the room, Gertrude had turned at her desk to watch him, hands folded in her lap, looking distinctly unimpressed with this display. Gerry didn’t care. He slung the lighter in the direction of her desk, where it bounced off of her pencil tray and twirled to a halt on top of a pile of scorched old papers. “See what just got delivered,” he invited her waspishly. “Can I tell him <em>now?</em>”</p><p>“Close the door, Gerard,” she told him evenly.</p><p>Gerry gave her a flat stare. He put his weight against the door again, scraping it painstakingly shut, taking his time. Unperturbed, Gertrude waited until the godawful noise stopped, then picked up the lighter and turned it over slowly in her fingers. It was, at least, a bit viciously satisfying to watch her eyebrows go up as she examined the spiderweb engraving.</p><p>“This was sent to Jon?” She spoke with carefully measured sharpness, the kind Gerry had gotten much better at recognizing since he’d learned about his tumor, which meant she was more alarmed than she was letting on.</p><p>“Yeah. <em>Delivered,</em>” he emphasized pointedly. “As in by a pair of really weird massive blokes who didn’t show their faces.”</p><p>Her eyebrows went up a fraction further. “The strong men?”</p><p>“I’d bet you ten pounds, yeah. And they almost gave us this bloody huge table on top of it, only Jon talked them into checking the registry again, and—"</p><p>Gertrude interrupted, leaning forward, her grip tightening just slightly on the lighter. “You’re saying he <em>persuaded</em> them?”</p><p>“Well — ” Gerry frowned at her. “I <em>guess,</em> but it wasn’t anything sinister. I saw it, he only asked them politely.”</p><p>Gertrude shot him an icy look. “One does not simply <em>ask</em> two members of the Tsirk Drugoi to withdraw a delivery, Gerard, no matter how <em>politely</em> one phrases the request.” She folded her hands and proceeded with a patronizing delicacy. “I hesitate to remind you yet again, but Jonathan was always a liability, and while I appreciate that the two of you have enjoyed a unique sort of... <em>companionship</em> over the past year, you cannot allow that to cloud your judgement.”</p><p>Gerry felt hot all over. “Sorry — Sorry, what’s <em>that</em> supposed to mean?” He demanded, incredulous. His palms had started to sweat, and he wiped them distractedly on his trousers.</p><p>Gertrude stood from her desk and held the lighter back out to Gerry. “I believe Jonathan has been compromised,” she said, completely matter-of-fact. “He is no longer trustworthy, and we both must insulate ourselves and our plans from his further investigation. Or, rather, <em>you</em> must insulate yourself.” When he didn’t move, she pocketed the lighter instead, then strode briskly over to her bed. Crouching down far more easily than any other woman of her age, she drew a small suitcase out from underneath, placing it on the quilt. “At this stage, it seems more prudent for me to isolate.”</p><p>Gerry stared at her. “So you’re… What, leaving the city?”</p><p>“I am.” Gertrude nodded and neatly flipped open the suitcase. “I’ll likely bring Mary along, so you won’t have to put up with her at least. I do wish it weren’t necessary, but the situation with the Mother of Puppets is a bit fragile at the moment, and—”</p><p>“Let me just get this straight,” Gerry interjected, far more savagely than he’d thought himself capable. “You think Jon is — is brainwashed<em>,</em> and spying on us, so you’re skipping town, even though your <em>only</em> evidence for this theory is that he was randomly gifted this lighter with a big fuckoff spiderweb on it?! That could just as easily have been a target! He could be in danger!”</p><p>“Be that as it may,” Gertrude said blandly, “I would rather the two of us hedge our bets, given that the fate of the world is hanging in the balance and all.”</p><p>Gerry threw up his hands. “It <em>always</em> is! It never stops! <em>Fuck</em> the world, if it can’t bloody take care of itself by now, why do <em>we</em> have to do it? Why does Jon have to be another sacrifice?!”</p><p>“Lower your <em>voice</em>, Gerard.”</p><p>He collapsed miserably into her vacant desk chair, his face and neck burning with the admonishment. “Why are you gonna make <em>me</em> pull the trigger?” He asked more quietly, his voice cracking, hating the words as they left his mouth. “Is this meant to teach me some kind of fucked up lesson, or—”</p><p>Gertrude sighed, finished folding a shirt into her suitcase, then turned around to face him. “I never said anything like that.”</p><p>“You’re <em>constantly</em> telling me how this business isn’t <em>easy,</em> though,” he shot back. “As if I don’t know that, and now you’re asking me to let him — to <em>watch</em> him walk blindly into whatever trap has been set, and report back as if —” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “You say you were chosen, and I — I was literally born for this, we both know we’re not <em>fit</em> for a normal life. But Jon is here because he cares about other people.”</p><p>Gertrude narrowed her eyes. “He is <em>here</em> because he was marked. Otherwise—”</p><p>“Otherwise he would have died! I know!” Gerry hissed. “But he <em>could</em> have just fucked off <em>anyway!</em> Counted the coma thing as a lucky break and found a new bloody career! Except he had to know why he was <em>special,</em> Gertrude, he couldn’t stand the idea that the universe somehow deemed him more worthy of life than anyone else in that building.” He clenched his fists in his lap. “It’s a <em>choice</em> to stay here every goddamn day, and it is <em>not</em> a selfish one.”</p><p>Gertrude was examining him now, and though Gerry had plenty of experience being studied by the Archivist, it didn’t make him feel any less raw or exposed. He knew he had said too much, tipped his hand, but he couldn’t take it back now. “You care for him,” she said, an observation, almost calculating, hinting at dangerous territory.</p><p>The fight went out of him. Gerry sagged in his seat, dragging one hand down his face in exhaustion. “If I wasn’t meant to, why did you let it happen?”</p><p>She regarded him for a moment, unreadable. “I suppose,” she said finally, “I had a moment of weakness myself.”</p><p>He hated her, then, in a fireworks display of rushing fury, heart pounding, astonished at the unfairness of it all. Quickly, it faded to resignation, a dull and impersonal marveling at his own shit luck, the extent to which he apparently deserved nothing, existed only to serve his purpose, like a tool. He’d survived cancer in order to keep on fighting the good fight, so that people who were a little less cursed could have better lives, and Gerry supposed that was something. He could accept that. He could give himself up, for that. But he couldn’t give up anyone else.</p><p>“We’ll be here when you get back,” he said, standing stiffly. “From wherever you’re going. We’ll be here. The two of us. Me and Jon.”</p><p>Gertrude did not openly broadcast any disappointment. It was as if Gerry had become especially attuned to sensing it, tasting it in the molecules of the air they breathed together. She could lie to him and he would never guess, and so he didn’t trust her, but he felt her judgments in the same way he felt the sun on his skin. “I’ll see you then,” she said, even and impassive.</p><p>Gerry nodded, and didn’t look at her again as he left. He thought of going back downstairs, of lying to Jon’s face for the thousandth time about the words they had just exchanged. He thought of taking Jon aside, or better yet, out of the bookshop, to some shitty café where nobody would look twice at them while he told Jon the truth. Jon would be upset by the dishonesty, he would never feel safe living at the shop again with the woman who had weighed his life against the greater good and found it lacking. He would leave, for good, and then get into trouble, alone, too proud to call for help, or simply too slow.</p><p>He thought of taking Jon somewhere and not telling him anything, not talking shop at all, just existing beyond the narrow confines of their endless fucking crusade against evil. Maybe they would go to a concert. Gerry would take him to see Paradise Lost, perhaps, or Anathema. Jon didn’t do well with loud noise, sustained or otherwise, but he would love <em>watching</em> everybody, the band, the crowd, he would soak in their excitement and their joy. Gerry would lend him his headphones, the noise-canceling pair; together they would dodge flying cups of shitty beer and laugh at the audacity of people having fun. For a few hours they would just be <em>part</em> of the world, not responsible for it.</p><p>Gerry went up to the roof, alone, and chain-smoked four cigarettes. Eventually, it started raining. He finished a fifth one before he went back inside.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Martin watched the two delivery men wrestle the table down the stairs, followed from a wary distance by Rosie. He'd offered to show them the way to Artefact Storage, which would at least get the thing out of the way, but Rosie insisted she could handle it. "Someone ought to tell the director," she added, with a significant look in his direction.</p><p>He trotted up the stairs to the director's office. Nearly the entire second floor of the building was empty now, set aside for meeting rooms no one needed anymore and study carrels no one used. The only room with any consistent occupants was at the end of the west corridor, past a dozen dusty oil paintings of previous directors of the institute. Every one from Jonah Magnus to James Wright — Martin wondered if there wasn't a budget to get a portrait of Elias Bouchard yet, or maybe just no room for one. It would spoil the symmetry a bit.</p><p>The door at the end of the corridor was glossy, dark brown wood. Martin knocked, as he'd knocked so many times before now. "Excuse me?"</p><p>"Come in, Martin."</p><p>The director's office had several large windows, though these were usually covered by thick curtains; Martin assumed it had something to do with protecting the office's rich furnishings from light damage. Today, however, one set of curtains were drawn back, and the director stood at the window, looking down. The sunlight glowed on his faded chestnut hair and the warm browns of his suit; it caught the snug bracelet on his right wrist, braided out of some glossy red-orange fiber, which positively burned.</p><p>"Sorry to bother you," Martin said, "but there's just been some kind of delivery — "</p><p>"I know, Martin." The director beckoned him over to the window, and Martin realized he could see the delivery van from here, at just the right angles. "I've been expecting this."</p><p>Oh. Well, that should make Rosie happy, at least. "I think they're taking it down to Artefact Storage, sir, but if you want I can pop downstairs and have them move it somewhere else—"</p><p>"No, no," the director assured him. "Artefact storage is fine for now. Maybe even ideal." He smiled indulgently at Martin. "Also, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Ray?"</p><p>Martin cringed. "At least once more, ss— er. Mr. Fielding."</p><p>The director sighed. "I thought as much. Get back to work; I'll give you more instructions when it's time."</p><p>"Yes, Mr. Fielding."</p><p>"And thank you for the update. I always appreciate you keeping me informed."</p><p>"You're welcome, Mr. Fielding."</p><p>Martin shut the brown door, and as he walked down the row of frowning faces he could almost feel the conversation go into soft focus inside his head. That was all right, though. He always remembered the important things.</p><p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Man On the Inside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha consults law enforcement. Daisy and Basira do some paperwork. Martin brings in an expert. Tim gives someone a place to crash.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Daisy Tonner was dangerously bored.</p><p>She tossed a stress ball from hand to hand; it had been a gift a few years back from a colleague, another Sectioned officer, who joked that she needed a "chew toy." He'd been dead within a year, and Daisy had cut the throat of the thing that killed him. When she made a fist, she could crumple the ball nearly flat; then she released it, and the foam rebounded, except for the small gouges left by her nails.</p><p>"Don't you have paperwork to do?" Basira asked. <em>She</em> was doing paperwork. Normally they'd eat lunch now, but Basira was fasting and Daisy didn't have an appetite. Not for the day-old butter chicken she'd brought in, anyway. Her most recent cases had been the kind that don't leave a paper trail.</p><p>She tossed the ball in the air. Snatched it back. "Nothing urgent."</p><p>"Maybe you could try not letting it get urgent, then."</p><p>Toss. Snatch. "Thought you didn't like paperwork." Basira wasn't a detective because, she said, she didn't want the paperwork. She was clever enough for it, though. Good with people. Better than Daisy, anyway.</p><p>"I don't like paperwork," Basira said gently, "which is why I don't let it pile up on me."</p><p>Toss. Snatch. "What about that break-in, in Barnet?"</p><p>"Daisy, that was like a month ago."</p><p>Toss, snatch. "You said it was a weird one."</p><p>"Not that kind of weird." Basira was doing a crossword; she put it away. "And anyway, the shop owner wasn't interested in pressing charges."</p><p>"Doesn't mean we can't." Toss, snatch.</p><p>Basira rolled her eyes. "Archers on a hiatus or something?"</p><p>"No." Toss, snatch. "Just feeling … restless."</p><p>"Well, go run some laps around the station or something."</p><p>Basira usually prayed in Daisy's office. Daisy usually didn't mind. Today she stepped out, away from the smothering quiet and murmured Arabic. The bullpen wasn't much better: busy, sure, but nothing that could grab Daisy's attention and hold it. Conversations. Paperwork.</p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p>Daisy turned. The desk sergeant had stepped away, and a civilian was craning her head to look for him. Female, early 30s, tall and thin with long hair in a messy bun. Carrying a laptop bag instead of a purse. Shoes she could run in.</p><p>"Can I help you?" Daisy asked. She'd tear the desk sergeant a new one when she found him.</p><p>Civilian smiled. "Hi, sorry. I'm trying to figure out the status of a Freedom of Information Act request I filed a few months ago, and I'm not getting anywhere on the phone, so I thought I'd come down in person."</p><p>Daisy had already lost interest, but she'd make it the sergeant's problem. She found a notepad and a pen. "Name?"</p><p>"Sasha James."</p><p>"What documents were you requesting?"</p><p>"Reports related to the fire at the Magnus Institute in Chelsea on 15 March 2015."</p><p>Daisy froze.</p><p>"I waited twenty business days, I'm not stupid, but when I didn't get anything I tried to call the records office—"</p><p>"Those files aren't available to the public," Daisy interrupted.</p><p>"Why not?"</p><p>"They're related to an ongoing investigation."</p><p>James's eyes narrowed. "I thought the fire had been deemed an accident by the inquest."</p><p>Of course it had. They weren't given all the files, either. "I can't comment on that."</p><p>James looked left and right, as if sweeping the room for threats. "If I told you I had new evidence pertaining to that open investigation, what would you say?"</p><p>"I'd ask you to step into my office," Daisy said. She wasn't bored anymore.</p>
<hr/><p>The woman in the pantsuit lead Sasha to a small office, with a name plaque that read <em>DS Alice Tonner</em>. Another woman, this one in uniform, was just stepping out, and she raised an eyebrow at them. "Problem?"</p><p>"Maybe." Tonner tossed her head in Sasha's direction. "Wants to discuss a weird one. Bouchard case."</p><p>That sent Sasha's pulse ratcheting up and her mind racing. The constable in uniform gave Sasha a measuring look. "Want me to sit in on this?" she asked, and for a moment Sasha wasn't sure which of them the question was addressed to.</p><p>"Nah, I can handle it," Tonner said. "Unless you want to…?"</p><p>"I should get back on patrol." She didn't sound enthusiastic about it, though.</p><p>Tonner nodded sharply. "I'll keep you updated."</p><p>Sasha sat in Tonner's office, and didn't miss the snick of the door locking behind her. "Why did you call it the Bouchard case?" she asked, as Tonner settled into her own chair.</p><p>"You first," Tonner said crisply. "You said you have new evidence."</p><p>Sasha waited for her to pull out a notebook or a recording device or — well, something. But Tonner just looked at her steadily. Possibly not blinking. Well, it was now or never; she was out of her depth, and there might be lives on the line. "Gertrude Robinson is alive. She was declared dead by the inquest, but no body was found, and I discovered her alive and well a few months ago."</p><p>"Why didn't you report it a few months ago, then?"</p><p>Sasha shrugged. "I wasn't sure she was actually involved in the accident," which wasn't technically a lie. "And even if she'd set the fire, she might not have had anything to do with the CO2, right? But it just seems like too much of a coincidence."</p><p>Tonner gave her a searching look. "Has Robinson told you how she got out of the building unseen?"</p><p>"She hasn't told me, but — there are tunnels that connect to the archives, and run for miles underground. She could've retreated through there. I've only mapped part of them—"</p><p>"We knew about the tunnels," Tonner said, cutting her off again. "Didn't have the manpower to search them properly."</p><p>"Why not?" Sasha asked, boggling. "Over a hundred people were dead, you didn't think—?"</p><p>Tonner leaned forward. "Listen here, Miss James. The Metropolitan Police don't like weird. They don't want weird. They don't trust weird. And everything pertaining to that Institute of yours? Is weird. So no, we weren't given enough manpower, and no, when your boss blamed everything on CO2, we couldn't argue it. Just like we couldn't follow up with the survivor or hunt down the missing old woman. So you're not actually sharing anything new to me, except maybe Robinson's current address."</p><p>Sasha bit her lip, trying to take all that in, and for some reason her brain latched onto — "Are you saying it wasn't a CO2 issue that killed everyone?"</p><p>"I'm saying you can't test for CO2 poisoning posthumously," Tonner said. "So it's a very convenient cause of death when nobody wants to look too closely at a load of dead bodies."</p><p>If it wasn't the CO2 … Sasha tried to make the facts in her head fit into a new configuration. "What part of the investigation is still open, if not that?"</p><p>Tonner hesitated, and her mouth twisted into a scowl. "Elias Bouchard was found with three gunshot wounds to the chest. No weapon recovered from the scene."</p><p>Oh, god. George had told her that Elias belonged to the same power that inhabited the archives. It just hadn't occurred to her that Gertrude would've … would … and now she was coming after the Institute again? (If it wasn't the CO2, then how did all those people die?)</p><p>"So," Tonner continued. "Address?"</p><p>It wasn't betraying anyone's confidence. It was protecting everyone still attached to the Institute.</p><p>"Thirteen Abbotsbury Road, Morden," Sasha said. "Pinhole Books. She lives above the shop, or she used to. I don't know if she's still there. I <em>do </em>know she's been meeting with a man who calls himself George Icarus, and he uses the tunnels to break into the Institute for her."</p><p>Tonner wrote down the address and the name. "If we can't find her at the shop, can you lead us to Icarus?"</p><p>"I — maybe." He could hide indefinitely if he used his Leitner, but Sasha thought he might still be invested enough in her — or her grocery runs — to meet at least one more time.</p><p>Tonner tore the page off the notepad and shoved it towards Sasha. "Details here. I'll handle the rest."</p><p>Sasha wrote down her phone and email. Gertrude was going to face justice. And whatever else dwelled inside the Institute these days … well, she'd figure out how to address that on her own.</p>
<hr/><p>Leitner hadn’t had this many visitors in years.</p><p>The young woman, Sasha, that was one thing. He’d crossed paths with a few members of the rather unsavory urban exploration crowd over the years, and of the even fewer he’d needed to dissuade from returning, it hadn’t taken much. Certainly none of them had been particularly <em>educated.</em> Sasha was already an initiate, on the other hand, and she’d had the guts to stand up to his man-behind-the-curtain act. For that, she deserved to be cultivated in her knowledge, to the extent that Leitner could offer. After all, as dreadfully as things had gone with the library, that had always been his ultimate goal — to <em>enlighten</em>.</p><p>And now there was another one down here, somebody who had been <em>touched,</em> this time in a way that had him strolling confidently through the labyrinth, seemingly without a care for destination, as if he had an invisible string in his hand that would lead him back up the trapdoor once he had found what he was looking for. He was clearly one of the Institute lads, smelling of soot and old papers, dressed in what passed for business casual these days.</p><p>When Leitner first got wind of him coming down through the trapdoor he’d retreated back to one of his saferooms, the one with the old pipe in it just in case, and simply let him wander for a bit, if that was what he was down here to do. But in a very roundabout way, the young man had suddenly, inexplicably, arrived at his door. It shouldn’t have even <em>looked</em> like a door from the outside, and yet here he was, <em>knocking.</em></p><p>Leitner was debating whether to craft an egress through the back wall before it was too late, when the lad actually called out and addressed him. “Hello, sir? Er, Mr. Leitner? Please don’t be alarmed, I’ve only come to ah, discuss business. Gertrude sent me?”</p><p>Leitner paused. The young man continued: “Gertrude Robinson, you know, at Pinhole Books? I’m one of her new… assistants, so to speak.” He gave a soft, slightly nervous chuckle.</p><p>“But you’re from the Institute,” Leitner countered through the wall. No point in keeping up pretenses if the man already knew who, and where, he was. “You came in through the Archives.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, well.” The lad paused and cleared his throat. “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. I’m sort of her, ah, her new man on the inside.”</p><p>“Is that so,” Leitner replied slowly. After a moment of deliberation, he removed the door between them, if nothing more but to size his visitor up.</p><p>“Yes.” The young man nodded confidently; he was tall, but looked altogether quite soft and unassuming. “She knows you’ve been… Less than enthusiastic, about her ah, modus operandi lately, and she sent me to inform you that I’m ready to take over your connection. Which means, of course, you don’t have to worry about doing any more midnight theft.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t exactly call it—” Leitner started, slightly ruffled, but the lad shook his head and spread his hands, placating.</p><p>“Don’t worry! I’ve smoothed it all over at the library. Those books aren’t even on the registry anymore. Just — It’s not <em>those</em> books I actually came down here to talk to you about, not really.”</p><p>Leitner regarded him. “Am I right to assume you’re looking for a particular sort of literary expertise…?”</p><p>“It’s that obvious, huh?” The young man chuckled with polite embarrassment. “I just want to know how to properly handle it, honestly, I’m not interested in actually mucking about with what’s inside — It’s just that it has your name on it.”</p><p>“They all do,” Leitner sighed, the usual combination of dread, despair, and swelling pride washing lightly over him. “I suppose I could have a look, couldn’t I…”</p><p>“I’d be really grateful,” said the young man, audibly relieved. “You know how Gertrude is, very blunt and… Selectively detailed. I really don’t want any accidents.”</p><p>They made their way back through the tunnels, much faster this time, aided by Leitner’s particular literary expertise. The young man, whose name was Martin, helped him through the trapdoor into the Archives, where he looked around only to find it as ashen and empty as the last time he’d surfaced here. “Where is the book in question…?” He asked, skin prickling with the usual sense of exposure one still experienced in the Archives, decimated or no. He clutched his copy of <em>A Disappearance </em>a bit tighter.</p><p>“Oh, it’s in Artefact Storage,” Martin explained, heading over to the door. “Down the hall. You know where we keep your books, surely?”</p><p>“They aren’t my books,” Leitner reminded him wearily. “But yes, I know where they are kept.”</p><p>“Well, lead on, then,” Martin offered, and held the door open.</p><p>The institute was quiet and dark; Leitner's subterranean lifestyle had left him quite out of sync with the cycle of day and night, but he guessed the workday must've been long over. Their footsteps echoed oddly, and they left sooty footprints on the tiles as they crossed the corridor into the storage department. A single overhead light was on, though it flickered at intervals, and Leitner made that his destination, careful not to touch anything interred on the shelves.</p><p>A movement caught his eye — barely a shift in the shadows, but Leitner would not have survived this long if he had been an unobservant man. He paused, and glanced over his shoulder, but Martin had not accompanied him. Perhaps he was keeping watch at the door for any unexpected visitors.</p><p>The whisper of movement came again. "Gertrude?" he called, as loudly as he dared, though even as he said it he knew it was foolish — she would've simply come herself if she had need of him, not sent some lackey to fetch him. He knew he was surrounded by the detritus of the Dread Powers, and he was not foolish enough to assume every item was quiescent or contained.</p><p>He had developed by now a robust sense of when to retreat. He had never been one to walk towards danger when he could walk away from it — or when he could dispatch someone else to do it for him. But it was for that very reason he pressed forward now. If the danger was emanating from one of his books, he was uniquely suited to address it.</p><p>Just this once, it could be him.</p><p>He turned the corner of a shelf, and found the flickering light. It was spotlighting a table, ornately carved. Beautiful. For a moment he forgot himself, and leaned over to trace the swirling pattern, not quite touching the wood. He wasn't that foolish. A remarkable piece of furniture, quality, not that particle board rubbish…</p><p>There was movement in the corner of his eye.</p><p>Leitner snapped upright, tearing his eyes away from the table to search the shadows. "Martin?" he asked, with mounting dread. The book. There was no sign of the book. Why wasn't there a —</p>
<hr/><p>Martin waited at the door until the screaming died down, and then he unlocked it. After a moment, a man emerged, short and round and bearded. "Everything sorted?" Martin asked brightly.</p><p>"Oh, yes," Leitner said brightly. He smoothed back his hair, which was still dark in spite of his age. "Yes, I think it's all been taken care of."</p><p>"Great," Martin said enthusiastically. The director would be so pleased. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Leitner."</p><p>He grinned widely, showing all of his teeth. "It was truly my pleasure."</p>
<hr/><p>By far the most annoying thing about someone buzzing his flat in the middle of the night was that Tim was awake to answer it. He didn’t <em>want</em> to be, per se, but sleep these days had been yielding him an increasing number of disturbing dreams that he could never quite recall in detail, and very little genuine rest. Tim had always been a steadfast and perhaps admittedly annoying brand of morning person, but lately he found himself putting off going to bed the way he used to put off his maths homework, leaving it until the eleventh hour—</p><p>Or, in tonight’s case, half past two in the morning. By then, Tim had been reduced to browsing the shopping channel, and he was seriously weakening towards a pair of dangly silver earrings when the buzzer sounded. He knew he shouldn’t answer; there was no good reason to, except that he was still awake and deeply unwilling to change that.</p><p>Begrudgingly, Tim moved over to the call panel and pressed the intercom. “Hello?”</p><p>The speaker crackled to life. <em>“Oh, bloody hell, is that you, Tim? The card by your button’s been rained on, and</em>—<em>”</em></p><p>“Hang on, <em>Melanie? </em>What are you doing here?” Tim felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. “Don’t tell me you’re being chased by some fucked up skin puppet—”</p><p><em>“No! No, nothing like that </em>—<em> Look, can you please just let me up for a minute? It’s really cold, and I forgot my coat.”</em></p><p>Tim grimaced to himself; by Melanie’s standards that was practically begging. He punched the button to buzz her in. Then, on second thought, he turned and jogged for the bedroom, to throw a shirt on before she made it up the stairs.</p><p>When he unlatched the door for her, Tim immediately noticed that Melanie looked frazzled, and that she was hefting a bulging duffel bag. Not usually good signs in combination, but he didn’t comment, just stood aside to let her in. It didn’t end up being important that he reserved himself from prying, however, because she started talking as soon as she’d crossed the threshold.</p><p>“You would not <em>believe </em>the bullshit Andy and Pete put me through tonight—! So I finally got the film from the taxidermist's in, you know, viewable condition, so I showed it to them, because I thought— God, I don’t know what I thought!” She tossed her duffel bag down next to the couch, and Tim waited for her to sit down, but instead she just made a heel turn and started pacing. “I guess I expected— After five <em>years</em>! It took me a long time to build our channel up from the ground the way I did, and dealing with marketing, and production— It’s not unreasonable, is it, the expectation they might hear me out, after <em>everything</em>—<em>”</em></p><p>Tim, after some consideration, went ahead and left the door unlatched, and made toward the kitchenette. Melanie kept talking. “They told me— They <em>accused</em> me of <em>doctoring</em> the footage, of fabricating— Out of everyone! Everyone who has ever worked on the show, <em>my</em> integrity— Sure, we go to some sketchy sites sometimes, maybe get the cops called on us, but bloody hell, I don’t edit out any of that—! I’ve certainly got more integrity than— I mean can you <em>imagine!</em>”</p><p>She turned to face Tim finally. He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head at her: <em>Go on?</em></p><p>Melanie crossed her arms savagely. “Can you imagine working with people for— for <em>years,</em> and thinking you were close, close enough to share something important with— and then all of a sudden they <em>accuse</em> you of doing something so completely ridiculous and, and out of character, that you realize they must not know you at all? That they must have some, like, weird caricature of you in their head, as a bloody <em>side</em> character of their own personal narrative? Like they’ve reduced you to this idea, and if you step outside those boundaries then— Then that’s it, they don’t even recognize you anymore. Probably never <em>did</em>.”</p><p>Tim stared at her with one hand on the grip of his refrigerator. She stared back, a blush slowly creeping up her neck as she tried stiffly to ignore it.</p><p>“So— D’you want a beer?” Tim asked finally, and popped the fridge open.</p><p>“Er,” said Melanie. “I mean— You don’t have to give me one, I—” Tim gestured at the general area surrounding the couch, already decorated with four empty bottles. She made an awkward attempt at hiding her face journey as she realized that Tim was already four drinks in, and for that matter, awake at 2:30 AM to let her casually into his apartment. Clearing her throat, she nodded. “Yeah, erm. Sure. Thanks.” Another pause. “Thanks for— Letting me up, and all.” She gestured to the duffel bag. “I sort of left in a hurry? And… I know it’s really late, and we’ve only met a few times— I should have at least called. I just… You <em>know</em> I didn’t make it up, not any of it.”</p><p>Tim popped the caps off of both drinks, left them in the sink, and rounded the counter to hand Melanie hers. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it. I mean, I actually do.”</p><p>She took a sip, valiantly choked it down, coughed surreptitiously, and asked, “What, you mean people have— have called you a liar as well?”</p><p>“Nah.” Tim shook his head. “Unlike you, I never had the stones to actually <em>tell</em> anyone what happened. Not even the Institute. I — Christ, I literally applied there so I could do my own research without having to ever talk about it, actually.” He tipped his drink back. “God.”</p><p>Melanie followed the movement of his bottle with her eyes. “Right. So… I’m definitely not gonna ask you, then.”</p><p>“Good.” Tim muffled a burp. “I’m not gonna tell you.” He wasn’t drunk, per se, more like his tolerance lately had gone up perhaps more than it should have. “But it was those skin puppet freaks, and— Somebody died.”</p><p>Melanie nodded slowly, and then took another sip of her beer, despite the face she’d made earlier. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then, “Do you think Sarah Baldwin is dead?”</p><p>Tim picked at a weird scuff on his counter. “I dunno,” he said eventually. “But— I don’t think you’ve honestly ever met Sarah Baldwin. Not the real one.”</p><p>“Fuck,” said Melanie plainly, staring somewhere past Tim’s shoulder. “Yeah, didn’t you say she was from Edinburgh? She never sounded Scottish.” Wandering over near her duffel, she sat heavily on the couch.</p><p>Tim trailed after her, and sat on the other end. “He was right,” he ventured after a minute of quiet. “Gerard Keay, I mean. He was right — knowing doesn’t make it better.”</p><p>“Yes it <em>does,</em>” Melanie insisted vehemently, bringing a fist down on her knee like a gavel. “Knowing there’s an <em>explanation</em> for all this— Even if it’s a bleak, shitty, awful one, it’s better! It’s better to know I’m <em>right</em>.”</p><p>“Better for you, maybe,” Tim countered. “Not better for everyone. It doesn’t do the dead any good, us knowing what killed them.”</p><p>Sighing, Melanie threw herself back against the sofa. “But what about <em>telling</em> people? That’s what you <em>do</em> with, with dangerous fucking, conspiracies, isn’t it, you show them to the public—?”</p><p>Tim snorted. “You studied journalism at uni, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Audio-visual production,” Melanie countered snottily, and then with a bit more contrition: “I did secondary courses in journalism. I bet you were probably, what, PPE?”</p><p>“Anthropology,” he corrected her smoothly.</p><p>She threw him a second glance at that, and slumped against the couch, sipping tiny, grudging mouthfuls of her beer. “Well. What are you supposed to <em>do</em>, then, if you can’t warn anybody, and you can’t just… Move on?”</p><p>“Dunno,” said Tim again. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”</p><p>Melanie kicked idly at her duffel. “I guess you become fucking Batman.” She shrugged. “Or Gerard Keay.”</p><p>“Huh.” Carefully, Tim set his drink down on the side. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”</p><p>“Whatever it is he’s doing, it’s definitely not nothing,” she agreed.</p><p>“So… I guess we go talk to him again.” Tim sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Given that we can’t just… Un-know shit.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Melanie shot him a sidelong glance. “Before… That happens. Do you maybe know, like, a cheap hotel in Bromley, or—”</p><p>“You can crash on the couch,” Tim interjected, pushing himself up to stand. “Of course you can, or I wouldn’t have let you in.”</p><p>“Okay, okay. Thanks.” She flashed him a grateful look and then bent down to tug her duffel closer. “Christ, I’m not even sure what I have in here.”</p><p>“Let me know if you need a toothbrush,” Tim called, heading to fetch some spare blankets from the closet.</p><p>“What, do you just keep spares around?” She asked, over sounds of rummaging. “You must get a lot of surprise overnight guests.”</p><p>“What can I say,” he replied, though after a conversation like that, he could muster almost none of his usual cheek. “I’m a popular guy.”</p><p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Collateral Damage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon puts the whammy on an officer. Sasha aids a dangerous investigation.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Gun Violence, Graphic Description of Skinning</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon wasn't having the best week.</p><p>On one hand, there was Gertrude's sudden departure — not that she hadn't upped and left them before without warning, but that had been for a few days, tops. Not an open-ended absence with no way to get in touch with her. And coming on the heels of that unnerving delivery — well, he couldn't help but make a connection between the two.</p><p>He wanted to ask Gerry about that lighter, to explain all his fears, to beg for advice — but then he'd have to explain why he'd kept all his experiments with Martin a secret. Not to mention … other things involving Martin. And imagining <em>that </em>lead him into a tangle of feelings too intense and interconnected to handle, so like a coward, he kept putting it off.</p><p>Which wasn't difficult, because, on the other hand, Gerry seemed to be avoiding him. Not in an obvious way — he didn't run out of the room when Jon walked in or anything. They still lived as much in each other's pockets as ever, which was unavoidable given the size of the flat above the shop. But Gerry was quiet and distant; he spent a lot of time shut up in his room, poking at his research on the Unknowing, and a lot of time up on the roof smoking. And since Jon had fed him that line about wanting to quit, he didn't even have the excuse to sit up there with him and shoot the breeze the way they used to.</p><p>"It's probably nothing," Martin had assured him the last time he'd come by, after Gerry had made himself scarce. "He's allowed to have his own stuff going on, you know?"</p><p>"I just …" <em>I miss him </em>was a stupid thing to say when they lived together, and also quite likely to sent Martin the wrong message. (As if Jon knew the right one.) "What if he knows what the lighter signifies, and he's pushing me away because of it?"</p><p>Martin had huffed. "<em>We</em> don't know what the lighter signifies. It might just be a weird souvenir!"</p><p>"If you'd seen those deliverymen, you'd know it can't possibly be <em>just </em>anything."</p><p>(When Jon had held it, he had felt — something. A call, a pull, not toward anything specific; more like a <strong>word </strong>on the tip of someone else's tongue. The feeling had vanished when Gerry took it, though, and he very much did <em>not </em>want it to return.)</p><p>More than the uncertainty or emotional turmoil, though, the one-two punch of Gertrude's absence and Gerry's withdrawal left Jon, repeatedly, manning the shop. It wasn't that he didn't like the commercial aspects of Pinhole Books, it was … well. To be perfectly honest, he hated the commercial aspects of their work, even as he understood it was necessary in order to actually keep the three of them fed and equipped. The rare books trade was a far cry from his one very limited experience working retail (a shitty job during his gap year to save money for uni), but customers, it seemed, were determined to be <em>customers </em>no matter the context.</p><p>And after a week of customers being, well, customers — even the relatively scant number of customers Pinhole typically saw — Jon was at the end of his very limited patience. So when the bell on the main door jangled not thirty seconds after he'd unlocked for the day, he gave in a teensy bit to his worse nature. Specifically, by ignoring the incoming guest in favor of re-shelving the atlases.</p><p>Footsteps approached behind him. He was sat in the middle of the shop's main room, impossible to miss, and if he had deigned to turn his head just slightly he would've been able to see who had arrived. But he had been putting up with members of the public in various combinations of entitled, idiotic and obnoxious largely by himself for days, and he was going to get these goddamned antique atlases sorted to his satisfaction before he gave a single moment of his time to anyone else.</p><p>The person behind him cleared their throat. Jon didn't care.</p><p>"Excuse me."</p><p><em>No, </em>he thought, slotting an odd-sized volume perfectly into the gap between several other books and the top of the shelf.</p><p>A sigh. "Sergeant Tonner, CID. I'm looking for Gertrude Robinson."</p><p>Oh, shit.</p><p>Jon stood and turned. The woman behind him was tall and lean, like a distance runner, with close-cropped hair and an intense scowl. She wore her warrant card on a lanyard around her neck, and was holding it out for emphasis. "S-sorry," Jon stammered. "I — what?"</p><p>"Gertrude Robinson," Tonner said, slowly, like Jon was too thick to comprehend. "I was told she works here?"</p><p>Gerry appeared on the stairs, which was fortunate, because Jon's brain was still caught in a loop of panicked nonsense. "There's no one of that name on the premises," he said loudly as he hopped down the last few steps.</p><p>Tonner gave him a once-over, from his eyebrow piercing to his Doc Martens, and couldn't completely contain a sneer. "And you are…?"</p><p>"Gerard Keay," Gerry said smoothly. "I own the place. Live upstairs."</p><p>"So I hear," Tonner said. "Do you know where I could find Ms. Robinson?"</p><p>"Can't help you," Gerry said, utterly stone-faced.</p><p>Tonner's eyes narrowed. "Does she live here?"</p><p>Gerry hesitated minutely; it wasn't a question he could avoid answering directly, but if he confirmed it, Tonner might have grounds for a search. Even if she had to come back with a warrant, there were an awful lot of things on the premises that would be both difficult to get rid of and difficult to explain away.</p><p>"I saw her last week," Jon blurted, because it was both true and misleading in a specific way. "But not since then."</p><p>Tonner gave him the same kind of incisive once-over as she had Gerry, and Jon resisted the urge to recoil from it. "Do you know when she'll be back?"</p><p>"She didn't say." She hadn't even told Jon she was leaving; he'd had to find out from Gerry.</p><p>Tonner's mouth thinned into a hard line. "I don't suppose she said where she was going, either, did she?"</p><p>"Nope," Gerry said, with a prominent pop on the <em>p.</em></p><p>"Right," Tonner growled. "Then I don't suppose you'll mind me having a look around?"</p><p>"I do mind, actually," Gerry said, crossing his arms over his chest. He and Tonner were almost the same height, but Jon had very few illusions of which of them would come off worse in a physical altercation. "Upstairs is off limits to the public."</p><p>"I'm not the public," Tonner said, showing her teeth.</p><p>"You also don't have a warrant," Gerry said. His voice was level, but Jon could see the beds of his fingernails going white where the lacquer had chipped off. "And I do not consent to the search of my property."</p><p>"I could just take you down to the station, then," Tonner said. "Both of you. See if you can keep your stories straight."</p><p>Fuck. Jon wiped his suddenly sweating palms on his trousers. "Or you could come back with a warrant," he said, dragging her attention again away from Gerry. "Assuming you've actually got grounds to obtain one, of course."</p><p>Tonner rounded on him and stepped close enough to loom. "You think you're clever, do you?" she hissed, all glare and growl and danger.</p><p>Jon reached within himself, focusing all his will and intent out into one word, one compulsion, one connection between them. "I think you should <strong>go." </strong></p><p>On one hand, he immediately felt a stab of pain through his head, a blinding, searing agony like no mere headache he'd ever experienced. His vision spangled out, and the rush of blood in his ears muffled all sound.</p><p>On the other hand, he felt the moment the compulsion landed: a click like a key fitting a lock, the smell of blood in his nose, and DS Tonner decided she wasn't feeling up to an arrest just then. He couldn't process what she said, could barely even hear it, but he was aware of her heavy footsteps as she stormed out of the shop.</p><p>Gerry was by his side an instant later, grabbing onto his shoulders. "Jon? Jon, what the hell, you look like you're about to pass out—"</p><p>"Call Martin," Jon managed, and then he tried to sit down, and missed.</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha almost didn't pick up her phone for the unfamiliar number, but she was glad she did; Detective Tonner's voice was clipped in her ear. <em>"Robinson's associates say she skipped town."</em></p><p>"She what?"</p><p>Tonner ignored the question. <em>"How do we get into the tunnels?"</em></p><p>"I've been using an entrance on Esterbrooke Street, near Vincent Square," Sasha said, even while part of her mind marveled over Gertrude leaving so suddenly. Could Martin have — no, she hadn't told him anything. "When can you—"</p><p>
  <em>"Right now. I'm on my way." </em>
</p><p>Sasha had to scramble to get to Chelsea, and found Tonner waiting for her at the end of Esterbrooke Street. She'd been wearing a pantsuit at the police station when they crossed paths, but today she was dressed more practically, jeans and sturdy boots. A blue lanyard poking out of her pocket was the only hint of her police affiliation. "Where are they?" she demanded, as Sasha jogged to catch up to her.</p><p>"This way. Have you got a torch on you?"</p><p>Tonner pulled a small one out of her pocket, clicking it a few times. A woman of few words, Alice Tonner.</p><p>The detective didn't seem fazed by the door or the steep steps down. As Sasha pulled the door shut behind them, she felt safe enough to explain, "I've left some markings down here as navigation aids. But the path can be … unpredictable."</p><p>"Unpredictable in what way?" Tonner asked, sweeping her much smaller torch over the walls.</p><p>Sasha decided immediately that if Tonner didn't believe her, it wasn't her fault. "The tunnels move. The layout of them, I mean. George has a book from the library of Jurgen Leitner — have you heard of him?"</p><p>"I've heard of spooky books," Tonner said flatly.</p><p>Interesting. "He can use it to make the walls move, if he wants to." Explaining Michael, she decided, was a little bit much for now. "He hasn't done it to me directly since the first time I encountered him, but I've found some of my markings displaced since then, so he might be rearranging the tunnels between my visits."</p><p>Tonner paused to study the thatch of crayon marks Sasha had left at the first intersection. "And you just … keep visiting?"</p><p>She shrugged. "He knows things. And I was curious."</p><p>Tonner merely snorted.</p><p>Sasha had perhaps gotten too used to George meeting her partway. She went slowly, marking each turn and stairwell on her hand-drawn map and leaving blazes of white crayon on the walls for safety. After checking the second of their usual meeting rooms, she could tell Tonner was getting impatient. "It doesn't usually take this long to find him," Sasha admitted.</p><p>"You think he bugged out?" Tonner suggested. "Ran away with Robinson?"</p><p>"He didn't seem all that happy with her," Sasha said, but of course that didn't mean he wouldn't run. Especially if she threatened to cut him off. It didn't <em>feel </em>right, though; she couldn't even explain what <em>feeling right </em>meant, just that some deep-seated intuition in her head told her <em>no, that's not it </em>when she thought too hard about it. Maybe she was finally becoming the paranoiac Martin had been accusing her of…</p><p>They were almost to the third possible room when Tonner grabbed her sleeve, and shushed her before she could blurt out a question. They stood in silence for a moment, before Sasha realized what Tonner was reacting to: voices, not their own, carrying oddly in the low tunnel. She couldn't make out the words, or even recognize them; when Tonner caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, Sasha could only shrug.</p><p>Tonner switched off her torch, and batted at Sasha's until she switched it off as well. That left them plunged into darkness, velvety and total — no. Not quite total. There were flickers, in the distance, in the same direction the voices seemed to be coming from. Reflected, not direct.</p><p>Tonner switched her torch on again, but held it low as she made a few obscure hand signals. She sighed at Sasha's obvious non-comprehension."Go on ahead," she hissed. "I'll be right behind."</p><p>"You're sure?" Sasha asked. If George was with Gertrude, there was every chance he could close the passage behind her and leave Tonner stranded. Or crushed.</p><p>"He's expecting you," Tonner said, and shoved Sasha forward.</p><p>So she turned on her headlamp and crept forward alone. She couldn't even hear Tonner's footsteps behind her, and when she glanced back, she saw no torch. She must be relying on following Sasha's light. Okay. She continued forward, pausing often to check the map — yeah, this was the third room George had met her in. She'd referred to it in her notes as the Room of Many Doors, because there were three along one wall and two on another. Not that that was ominous or anything.</p><p>As she rounded the bend, she saw one of the doors was open, and George's lantern was lit. Now that she was closer, she could make out the voices more clearly. "It simply seems excessive," George was saying, his rasping voice familiar after so many hours of lecturing.</p><p>"It's what we should've done in the first place." That was Gertrude. "Destroy it all. Salt the earth."</p><p>"You <em>do </em>have a pyromaniac streak, haven't you?"</p><p>"Hm. Remind me to tell you about Agnes some time."</p><p>"And what do you think of all this?"</p><p>A third voice, high and reedy, joined the conversation, and Sasha didn't immediately recognize it. "I love a good bonfire."</p><p>"And all the people who will go up with it?"</p><p>"Tch. I've died. There are worse things."</p><p>"Mary," Gertrude said harshly, and that was when it clicked: Mary Keay, the late owner of Pinhole Books. Sasha crept closer. "I didn't summon you to discuss moral philosophy."</p><p>"I thought you summoned me to help you sweet-talk our Jurgen," Mary said.</p><p>As soon as she did, a great many things suddenly made sense to Sasha.</p><p>She strode forward, heedless of the noise now, or keeping in Daisy's line of sight. Inside the Room of Many Doors, Gertrude stood before an array of objects on the table — a book, a can of petrol, a large knife, a revolver. A bald woman covered in tattoos — Mary, obviously — stood next to her. On the other side of the table, "George" had folded his arms over his chest, but stood up straighter when he saw her appear. "Sasha!" he said. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"What does it look like, Jurgen?" Gertrude asked with a sigh. "I suppose I should've realized when you said you had another supplier. You're very astute, Miss James."</p><p>"And you're planning to kill more people," Sasha snapped.</p><p>"I do not have time to be lectured by you—"</p><p>"Oh, I'm going to do more than lecture you—"</p><p>"—the slightest idea of what's at stake—"</p><p>"—didn't call the police before this —"</p><p>"Ladies, ladies!" George — no, Leitner, get it right — raised his hands and stepped between the two of them. His usual impish smile looked slightly strained. "Let's discuss the matter calmly. There's no need to involve the police in this."</p><p>"Too late." Tonner chose that moment to step into the room; she had a handgun raised and aimed at Gertrude. "Hands up, all of you."</p><p>"Well, this is a disappointment," Gertrude said, making no move to actually lift her hands.</p><p>Tonner smirked. "Just give me a reason, old woman."</p><p>"As if you need one."</p><p>Leitner, of course, had his hands over his head, and shot a pleading look in Sasha's direction. "This was really unnecessary, you know," he said. "We could've talked about this."</p><p>Sasha had to laugh. "Talked about it? Like you talked about being <em>Jurgen Leitner </em>this whole time?"</p><p>"No, he's not," Mary said. She also had her hands in the air, though Sasha suspected that didn't mean she was safe.</p><p>"Shut up, all of you," Tonner snarled. "Final warning, Robinson."</p><p>But Gertrude was looking at Mary, and back at Leitner. "What are you talking about, Mary?"</p><p>She chuckled. "That's not Jurgen, dear. Your eyes might be failing you, but mine are perfectly fine."</p><p>Sasha looked to Leitner in confusion — but no, he was the same man she'd been meeting with for months, short and round and bearded. "That's — he told me he was George Icarus," she explained quickly for Tonner's benefit, even though Tonner only had eyes for Gertrude. "But it makes sense now. He faked his death in the nineties, he's been hiding down here for years—"</p><p>"Exactly," Leitner said. "Gertrude, I don't know what our late friend here is talking about—"</p><p>Tonner cut off the conversation by firing her gun.</p><p>It was the loudest sound Sasha had ever heard. She felt it more than heard it, a sharp blast of noise followed by ringing silence. No, the ringing was in her ears — she could see Leitner's mouth still moving, but there was no noise, just the whine of sensory nerves pushed past their limits.</p><p>And if it was supposed to be a warning shot, it was a hideous miscalculation on Tonner's part. Gertrude snatched up the revolver on the table and pointed it at Tonner, they were shouting something at each other but Sasha couldn't hear, how could any of them possibly hear after the first gunshot—</p><p>Then Leitner grabbed the knife off the table and threw it at Mary.</p><p>Mary gasped, and then her entire body … dissolved? Discorporated, maybe, flesh and clothing twisting into wet black strands that dwindled into air.</p><p>It only took a second, but in that second Gertrude suddenly turned and fired on Leitner, knocking him backwards. Tonner fired at Gertrude, and a gout of blood blossomed from her shoulder as she dropped the revolver. Sasha dove to the floor, pressing her hands to her ears, but it did little to help the oppressive noise of the gunshots from drilling into her brain. Gertrude disappeared through one of the doors. Leitner, bleeding from a chest wound, staggered through another. Tonner charged after Gertrude, despite not having a torch or a map or any idea where she was headed.</p><p>And Sasha was alone.</p><p>Eventually, she managed to stand, though her legs were shaking from adrenaline. The knife lay on the floor, where Mary had been standing. The book lay on the table. Sasha approached it gingerly, unsure whether it could be another Leitner; the pages were closely written, almost illegibly. It looked as though someone had written one text out in — Hindi? Something using devanagari — and a second text had been written in, between the lines, the way they used to gloss Latin into Saxon in the Middle ages.</p><p>Mary's tattoos had looked an awful lot like devanagari, come to think of it.</p><p>Sasha really ought to wait for Tonner. She really ought to get out of the tunnels, before any more gunshots destroyed her hearing for good. She really ought to get out of here before she got hurt.</p><p>Instead, she studied the book, and started leafing through it.</p>
<hr/><p>The damned skin was leaking. Pathetic, it thought, clutching at the hole in its chest. This was the worst case scenario. If it weren't for the spiderwebs, it could've shrugged off the damage, stretched the skin to a better, stronger shape — but it was chained, limited to the forms humans wore, and now it was leaking gas and fluids in a disgusting trail.</p><p>A meal, a proper meal, might've helped, but so far only the ghost had seen through it, and her fear would be useless, if she could even be made to fear. The girl Sasha might work; she had radiated anger, not fear, at the perceived betrayal, but if it could get her alone for long enough, it might be able to break her, confuse her, use her.</p><p>Or maybe it should just shed the librarian altogether, and wear the girl instead…</p><p>The sound of movement made it stop. Human ears were as useless as human flesh, and though the ringing had started to fade, it still couldn't identify the sound. Had the girl followed it? Perhaps this would be easier than it had believed, to devour a new life and shed the damage. "Hello?" it called, careful to make its voice quaver pathetically. "Sasha, is that—"</p><p>Something lunged out of the shadows, pinning it to the ground. It thrashed, until it felt a knife press into its windpipe. The Hunter's breath was hot in its ear.</p><p>"Got you."</p>
<hr/><p>By the time the tinnitus in her ears had faded to a manageable level, Sasha thought she'd worked out the logic of the book. She returned to the interlinear pages, and peered closely at the English text between the lines. Leitner always said he didn't have to read aloud for the books to be effective, but Sasha reckoned it couldn't exactly hurt, either.</p><p>"'The razor's kiss was bright and sharp and endless. She had taken drugs, but not enough to completely dull the pain; the pain was a necessary element, and anyway such a quantity of pills would've rendered her unconscious too quickly. This had to be her best work, and her fastest, as she parted the skin from the rest of the useless meat. She had to be fast, or else blood loss would take her before the ritual was complete.</p><p>"'Her right arm made up the first sheet, the dominant one, because each subsequent one would be harder. She peeled it back from wrist to shoulder, twisting awkwardly to get the triceps and the bit around the elbow. It would shrink to size as it dried. She fumbled the hooks at first, fingers slick with blood, but her penmanship was impeccable as she wrote her immortality into her skin.</p><p>"'The left arm went easier; shock was beginning to kick in. For the third sheet, she carved into her own abdomen, slicing through the stripes her Gerard had given her, and the scar from her emergency Cesarean. It was fitting, that she'd carry those marks into her new existence, at least in some form. The emblems of a mother's devotion. She cut the sheet from one iliac crest to the other, from pubic mound to the floating ribs, and peeled it off the subcutaneous fat underneath with her fingernails.</p><p>"'But it was taking too long. By the time she'd finished writing out the third page, she was struggling to breathe, and her hands were shaking almost too hard to hold the pen. She couldn't stop now, though, not without spoiling everything. She had to be fully bound in order to be free.</p><p>"'He appeared at just that moment, in her hour of greatest need. Perhaps he'd known she needed him, a son's intuition or a gift from the patron he used to flirt with. She tried to explain, even as her brain grew cloudy; begged him to finish it, explained the next steps. She'd planned on using her thighs, but he could reach her back, do the last page in one piece. Make me whole, Gerard, she said, holding out the bloodied razor and the gore-smeared pen. Make me free.</p><p>"'He recoiled from her, face marred by disgust and horror. He abandoned her. He fled.</p><p>"'As the blade slipped from her fingers, she collapsed in a spreading pool of her own blood, too weak to even roll off her face. Perhaps three pages would be enough. Surely they would be enough. Her final thoughts were of her son, whom she forgave; if he lacked the stomach for this business, it only meant that she had failed him.</p><p>"'Her vision went black, and thus Mary Keay was bound.'"</p><p>Sasha raised her eyes from the page, and for a moment, she thought nothing had happened. Then the air before her began to thicken and curdle, oily black threads extending from nowhere and twining themselves together into a human shape. Bald, tattooed Mary Keay appeared, still wearing the same leggings and shapeless black dress as the last time. "Oh," she said, blinking at Sasha. "Aren't <em>you </em>the clever one."</p><p>"Is that — did you really do this to yourself?" It wasn't the most important question, but the first one Sasha thought to ask, the images still burning in her mind's eye.</p><p>Mary cackled. "Are you just now working that out, dear? Though I suppose you should get credit for even reading my pages; Gertrude's penmanship is <em>terrible."</em></p><p>So Gerard hadn't murdered her. That was … something, she supposed. "Gertrude wasn't there, so how did she write all that?"</p><p>"Gertrude … <em>revised </em>it." Mary's lips curled. "I made a few miscalculations, and Gerard wasn't able to amend it on his own. He was never a particularly diligent student, I'm afraid."</p><p>Sasha rubbed her eyes, and tried to focus on the more urgent questions. "How long have you been working with Gertrude? You and Gerard?"</p><p>"Oh, long enough, long enough, I think." Mary hopped up on the edge of the table and kicked her feet, an oddly girlish gesture. "And I must say, it's refreshing to be able to speak freely to someone new. There are so many things Gertrude doesn't let me say, and I <em>miss </em>gossip."</p><p>"You — she controls you?" Sasha asked. "Through the binding?"</p><p>Mary made an equivocal noise and waggled one hand. "Not exactly. But the one who calls me up can make — stipulations."</p><p>"Like what?"</p><p>"You'll have to work that out on your own, dearie." Mary's smile was wolfish.</p><p>Right. She shouldn't expect the monsters to just cough up their own limitations. Sasha hadn't brought her notebooks, so she couldn't work through an exhaustive list of questions, but she was fairly certain she could remember the highlights. "Okay. So. Did Gertrude shoot Elias Bouchard?"</p><p>"Oh yes! I thought that one was obvious."</p><p>"Did she set fire to the archives?"</p><p>"Obvious."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>Mary pantomimed a yawn. "You've really got a long way to go, haven't you? Elias — if we can call him <em>Elias — </em>was an avatar of the Eye, and the archive was part of his plan to bring it through."</p><p>"Bring it through what?" Sasha echoed. "You mean … I thought the Entities can't exist in our world."</p><p>"Well, not as it is now, they can't." Mary shrugged. "With the right ritual, though…"</p><p>"Oh." She tried to imagine what would happen if the Eye — or any of the other things she had names for — could attack people directly, instead of using monsters and avatars to harvest their fear. It wasn't really something she could get her head around. "So she doesn't just stop one monster at a time? But these … rituals?"</p><p>"Mm-hmm." Mary examined her nails. "Tried to take our Gerard on a world tour once, looking for clues about the Stranger's ritual. I put my foot down about that, of course. He wasn't in any condition to travel, and while it would be so <em>cozy </em>to share my book with him, I'm not in any particular rush. And Gertrude, she can be so careless about collateral damage when she thinks the whole world is on the line."</p><p>Right. Like the rest of the Institute. "Was it really CO2 poisoning?" Sasha asked. "That killed everyone else in the building?"</p><p>Mary tilted her head, mouth twisting into a mocking pout. "Of course not, dear, don't be naive."</p><p>"What <em>happened?"</em></p><p>"It was Elias's insurance policy," Mary explained. "Everyone who worked for that institute was bound to him, and the Eye, even if only by the most tenuous threads. It only takes a thread, you see, to pull the life out of someone, so if he died, you would all go with him. Mutually assured destruction. I helped Gertrude insulate herself from the effect, so she could eliminate him, but it wasn't the sort of thing she could go around sharing with the class without tipping her hand."</p><p>"But I didn't—" Sasha stammered, tried again. "Not everyone died. Martin, Tim, Jon — "</p><p>Mary shrugged. "Elias was <em>much </em>older than he looked, you know. I'm not surprised he got sloppy. And Jonathan had his own protection."</p><p>Her stomach plunged. "Jon's an avatar?"</p><p>Mary cackled again. "No, no, nothing of that sort! Honestly, if it were that simple, Gertrude would've merely killed him and been done with it. No, he's a much more peculiar case. The Mother of Puppets wants something from him, just like it wants something from this institute, and I think Gertrude's been waiting to see what that is." She paused. "Of course, her current plan is to blow up the Institute entirely, so perhaps her stance on our Jonathan has also evolved."</p><p>Oh god. Oh <em>god. </em>Sasha reached out to close the book, only belatedly realized she didn't actually know what that would do to Mary. "I have to find Jon," she said. "Can you — do you need the book to, to manifest?"</p><p>"Well, it certainly helps," Mary said. "But if you need to get going, you can always dismiss me for now. It doesn't even hurt much."</p><p>Sasha winced, but between a ghost and a living man, she'd have to side with the one still living. "I dismiss you," she said, and watched Mary dissolve into sticky black threads — ink? — yet again. As soon as she managed to stuff the book into her rucksack, she took off at a run.</p><p>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Strange Bedfellows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha stirs up some drama. Jon storms out. Gerry performs first aid. </p><p>Chapter Warnings: Graphic description of gunshot wound</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somewhat to Jon's surprise, Martin came around the shop in person. He'd persuaded Gerry that his illness was just a sudden onset migraine of some sort, and retreated upstairs to his bedroom to suffer in relative peace. He heard Gerry place a phone call, but making out the words was too much effort.</p><p>Hours passed — Jon couldn't be sure how many, exactly, as he passed in and out of a doze. Eventually he heard the bell on the door ring again, and the muffled sounds of Martin and Gerry talking, which carried on longer than he expected. Then footsteps on the stairs, and finally a soft knock on his door, before it creaked open. "Knock knock?"</p><p>'Who's there?" Jon groaned.</p><p>"Just me."</p><p>"'Just me,' who?"</p><p>"... Sorry?"</p><p>Jon raised his arm off his face just long enough to glimpse Martin silhouetted in the doorway. "Nothing. You didn't actually have to come."</p><p>"I wanted to see if you were all right," Martin said. "Gerry said you fainted?"</p><p>"I didn't faint," Jon insisted. "I tried to sit down and didn't quite make it to the chair."</p><p>"Right," Martin said, in a tone that indicated he didn't believe Jon for a minute. "Let me guess. That police officer showed up, you put the whammy on her, and gave yourself a migraine?"</p><p>"For God's sake, stop calling it a <em>whammy." </em>Jon sighed. "But yes, you're more or less correct. I think the ibuprofen is finally kicking in."</p><p>Martin sat in Jon's desk chair, and put a gentle hand on Jon's leg. "She was just asking about Gertrude, right?"</p><p>"If you're worried about guilt by association, Martin, coming here in person was a terrible idea."</p><p>"I'm more worried about <em>you." </em>Pause. "And, y'know, Gerry, of course."</p><p>Jon lowered his arm properly. In the weak daylight that filtered through the curtains, Martin looked terrible, with dark shadows around his eyes and at least day-old stubble. "I'm fine," Jon said. "We'll be fine. Don't fret."</p><p>"Maybe I like to fret," Martin said, with a little squeeze of Jon's ankle. "Where <em>is</em> Gertrude, anyway?"</p><p>"Hell if I know," Jon admitted. "Which is likely the point. Plausible deniability and all that."</p><p>Martin made a disgruntled noise deep in his throat, and muttered something about common courtesy, and rubbed his face with both hands.</p><p>Jon sat up, testing his head; the pain flared when he moved, but then ebbed again. "Are you all right?" he asked, reaching for Martin's arm.</p><p>"I'm not the one who fainted," Martin mumbled into his palms.</p><p>"I didn't — listen, you look like hell, and if <em>I'm </em>saying that, you know it's bad," Jon said firmly. "Is there something else going on?"</p><p>"Work's just — intense, lately," Martin sighed. "I don't really want to talk about it."</p><p>"All right," Jon said, though it — wasn't, really. He didn't like seeing his — whatever they were — his Martin stretched so thin. Martin had put so much effort into helping Jon and Jon had done very little for him in return. "I assume you've taken the rest of the day?"</p><p>Martin huffed a bit. "It's almost three. I didn't have to take much."</p><p>Huh. Jon had slept more than he realized. Perhaps, he allowed, he needed it. And he wasn't the only one. He tentatively tugged Martin's sleeve, saying, "You look like you could use a lie-down yourself."</p><p>"I — what?" Martin blinked slowly at him, as though the hand on his arm was undocumented artefact. "Jon, no. I'm not putting you out of your own bed."</p><p>"I think I can migrate to the couch under my own power," Jon said.</p><p>Martin pulled his arm free. He sounded genuinely discomfited by the offer. "I don't — I'm fine, really."</p><p>"Just an hour or two," Jon pleaded. "Then we'll get some take-away and try to work out what to do about Gertrude. I'll make Gerry pay for it."</p><p>That at least won him a bit of a smile. "You're really determined to get me into bed, aren't you?"</p><p>"I, er — oh." Jon felt his face heat up. "Not, er, not in that particular sense, but in a more pla — er, healthful capacity, I suppose I —" Martin's face cracked into a grin. "Oh, be quiet."</p><p>"I didn't say anything."</p><p>"You're thinking very loudly."</p><p>"And you're <em>definitely </em>up for reading my mind."</p><p>"Maybe I am," Jon said. "Maybe I'm reading all your thoughts right now."</p><p>"Okay, Karnak, what am I thinking?"</p><p>"...that you're very tired and would like to have a nap."</p><p>Martin pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Not … the <em>whammy."</em></p><p>Jon swatted his arm. "You're terrible. And I don't think I could compel a gnat right now, anyway."</p><p>"Well, isn't that good to know."</p><p>For a moment it was just … nice. The banter. The closeness. Martin's tired smile, lifting some of the shadows from his face. For a moment, Jon could forget his headache, forget the police and Gertrude and all the looming mysteries that threatened to subsume them. He leaned in, slightly, and then a bit more when Martin didn't pull away, and for a moment he honestly intended to close the gap and kiss him. He thought Martin might even kiss back.</p><p>Then the sound of more shouting filtered up from the shop, and Martin's smile fell away, replaced by confusion, then an unfamiliar rage. "Oh, <em>Christ," </em>he snarled, and rushed out of the room. Jon tried to follow him, but just standing caused starbursts across his vision, and he had to clutch the chair for a moment and take deep breaths until he was sure he wasn't going to throw up or collapse.</p><p>He made his way slowly to the stairs; the argument was clearly audible long before he'd gotten down them. "I <em>told </em>you to leave him out of this!" Martin was shouting. "I told you to take your stupid conspiracy theories and fuck <em>off—"</em></p><p>"It's not a theory!" That was Sasha's voice. What was Sasha doing here? "Jon's in danger, you have to let me talk to him."</p><p>"And you can't tell me what the problem is?" That was Gerry.</p><p>"You've been working with Gertrude," Sasha said with clear contempt. "For all I know, you're still working with her."</p><p>"Yeah, because she lives at the shop—" Gerry started to say.</p><p>Martin, however, cut him off. "It was <em>you, </em>wasn't it? You're the one who set the police after her!"</p><p>Jon stepped through the door into the shop just as Sasha said, "She killed them, Martin. She killed all of them! She knew she was going to kill them and she did it anyway and <em>he—" </em>she waved in Gerry's direction— "and his creepy ghost mum helped!"</p><p>"The hell does my mum have to do with this?" Gerry demanded, at the same time Martin said, "You can't possibly prove that! Any of that!"</p><p>But Sasha had spotted Jon in the doorway. She was trapped between Martin and Gerry, and Martin threw out an arm when she tried to step past him. "Jon, listen to me," she said. "You were marked by the, the Mother of Puppets. It's something to do with the Institute, I don't know how. But Gertrude is planning to blow the whole building up, and then she's coming for you next."</p><p>The words <em>Mother of Puppets </em>sank into Jon's stomach like cold knots. He knew that name, even if he didn't know how <em>Sasha </em>knew it. The Web. I-Am-Not-In-Control. Aranea.</p><p>"Because she couldn't have killed him the whole time they were living together?" Martin asked incredulously. "Jesus, Sasha, you're really off your rocker, you know that?"</p><p>Jon ducked under Martin's arm so they wouldn't have to keep shouting. "Sasha, who told you this?" he asked, grabbing her arms so he could <strong>reach </strong>past the pain in his head.</p><p>"Mary Keay told me some of it," she said, locking eyes with him. "I overheard her and Gertrude talking to — someone. There was a fight, and Gertrude ran off and left the book. I think she was shot."</p><p>"She was what?!"</p><p>"Where's the book?"</p><p>It was true. Everything Sasha was saying, was the truth as she'd heard it. Of that Jon had no doubt.</p><p>He turned on Gerry. "How much of this did you know?"</p><p>But he wasn't looking at Jon. "Where's my mother, Sasha?"</p><p>"Gerry, <em>what did you know?" </em>Jon grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, though he wasn't up to actually compelling anyone, not like this. "What did she tell you?"</p><p>Gerry looked at Jon, swallowed, and then looked down at the ground. "She told me you were … compromised."</p><p>"Did you know she killed everyone? At the Institute?"</p><p>Again, without looking up. "She told me it was an accident."</p><p>"Did you believe her?"</p><p>Instead of answering, Gerry looked at Sasha. "You said she was <em>shot. </em>Where the hell was all this?"</p><p>"There's tunnels that run under the Institute," Sasha said, looking at Jon, not Gerry. "She was meeting with … he called himself George Icarus, to me. I don't know where she ran off to because I came straight here."</p><p>Jon looked at Martin, who had gone whey-faced. "Shit," he said weakly.</p><p>"I need to go," Jon said, and when he pushed past Martin, Martin let him.</p><p>"Jon," Gerry called quietly.</p><p>Something hot and ugly broke finally broke through the shock, and Jon turned around as fast as his aching head would let him. "Shut <em>up,"</em> he snarled. "Just shut up. I came to you for help, I thought you were my friend, I thought — and you've been lying to me, this whole time! You knew what I was and you were lying to me! So! Shut! <em>Up!"</em></p><p>Gerry backed away hands outstretched, unable to even look Jon in the eye. Unable to tell him he was wrong.</p><p>Jon turned away and headed up the stairs.</p><p>His battered old suitcase was still tucked in the bottom of the wardrobe, and Jon wrestled it out onto the bed before throwing things in indiscriminately. Underwear, trousers, shirts — he realized he was holding one of the t-shirts he'd borrowed from Gerry at some point, and his stomach lurched. He threw it on the ground. There were too many books to fit in a suitcase, but he collected the ones that mattered the most, all his notes and files — though, it wasn't as if they were needed anymore, were they? Hadn’t his question been well and truly fucking answered?</p><p>"Jon," Martin said quietly, from the doorway.</p><p>"What?" he snapped. He couldn't take Martin's sympathy, not now; it felt too much like pity. Poor, stupid Jon, taken in by the first people to show him a bit of kindness—</p><p>Martin was talking again. " — make up the couch for you. Or, you know, whatever."</p><p>Right. Jon couldn't just <em>go, </em>he had to go somewhere. He sighed. "Thank you."</p><p>"We'll figure this out," Martin said, and stepped into the room. "You and me, right? We've figured out the rest of it."</p><p>"And Sasha," Jon said absently, wrestling the zipper on the suitcase shut.</p><p>Martin made a face. "I don't — you know she's not stable, right? Just because she was right this one time — "</p><p>"She's got Mary, though, hasn't she?"</p><p>"Mary's been working with the other two!" Martin protested.</p><p>"Then who?" Jon demanded, turning around. "Who am I supposed to trust? Who am I supposed to get answers from? Because right now it's looking like everyone I know is hiding something from me!"</p><p>Martin looked stricken. "You … you trust me, don't you?"</p><p>Jon sighed. "Of course I do, I didn't mean — I don't know what I meant."</p><p>"Right." Martin offered Jon a hand, and Jon took it. "Let's get out of here."</p><p>They went straight out onto the street; Jon didn't bother glancing into the shop, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself screaming again if he started. Sasha was waiting outside, at the corner, shifting her weight awkwardly from foot to foot. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't … I tried calling you, but you weren't picking up your phone, and I didn't know how else to warn you."</p><p>Blearily, Jon checked his phone; he realized he'd put it on silent at some point. There were … quite a few missed calls. "Right," he said. "Thank you for … making the effort, I suppose."</p><p>"I'm not going to let her hurt anyone else," Sasha said with conviction.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, you're a prophet," Martin grumbled, standing too close to Jon. "Thanks for the warning. We're going."</p><p>"Wait—" Jon put a hand on Martin's arm to stop him, and looked back at Sasha, pitching his voice low. "Where's Mary now?"</p><p>Sasha glanced warily in the direction of the shop. "Back at my flat."</p><p>"I want to talk to her," Jon asked.</p><p>"Jon, <em>no," </em>Martin said.</p><p>"Mary's never pretended to be anything other than a horrible old ghoul," Jon protested. "We can at least trust her to carry on in that fashion. She’s awful, but she’s never lied."</p><p>"She told me that Gertrude had … influenced her, somehow," Sasha offered. "Kept her from speaking freely around you."</p><p>Martin's face twisted. "Well, isn't that <em>convenient." </em></p><p>Jon blinked. "What are you talking about…?"</p><p>Martin leaned in close, one hand gripping tight onto Jon's arm. "She accused you of being a murderer for I don't know how many months," he hissed, jabbing a finger at Sasha. "She accused <em>me </em>of being part of some insane conspiracy because I actually <em>talk to our boss."</em></p><p>"So you're accusing <em>her </em>of — what?" Jon asked, at normal volume. His head was throbbing again.</p><p>"I don't know, okay? I don't know." Martin raked a hand through his hair. "She didn't say <em>who </em>shot Gertrude, did she? Or answer me, when I asked about the police?"</p><p>"Of course I called the police," Sasha said, and then dropped her voice to a hiss. "She's <em>killed </em>people, and she'll do it again."</p><p>"And you just <em>conveniently </em>found this out?" Martin demanded. "Just <em>happened </em>to be in these — these tunnels nobody's ever heard of? I don't believe it."</p><p>"And I don't think <em>you're </em>telling the truth about the director of the Institute," Sasha said to him, "but at least I know you're not planning to kill anyone."</p><p>"Oh, well, thank you! I'm so <em>very </em>grateful!"</p><p>"Martin, stop it," Jon said. "I want to hear what she has to say, and I want to talk to Mary."</p><p>Martin sighed explosively. "Fine. Let's go talk to Mary, then."</p><p>Sasha folded her arms across her chest. "No."</p><p>"I'm sorry, <em>what—?"</em></p><p>"I'll talk to Jon, but not to you," Sasha said. "I'm sorry, Martin, but I can't trust you. I just — can't."</p><p>"Fine." Martin tugged on Jon's sleeve. "C'mon, let's go home."</p><p>And Jon wanted to. God, he wanted nothing more than to go back to Martin's and sleep for a week. But he wanted answers, too. No, he <em>needed </em>them.</p><p>Reluctantly, he prised Martin's hand off his arm. "I'll … I'll catch up to you."</p><p>Martin's eyes went wide. "Jon, no."</p><p>"I want to hear her out," Jon said, hating the way Martin's face fell. "I won't be long."</p><p>"Fine." Martin shoved his hands in his pockets. "That's — whatever. Do what you want." He walked away from them, briskly, in the opposite direction from the Tube station, and Jon marveled that there was anything left of his heart to break.</p><p>After a moment, Sasha cleared her throat. "We should — I'm the other side of London from here," she explained.</p><p>"Right." Jon picked up his suitcase. "Lead on."</p>
<hr/><p>Gerry did not move for several minutes, even after the shop emptied itself of the tense, accusatory whirlwind Sasha had brought in. He felt strangely outside himself, like his body might not follow commands if he issued them, although he was vaguely aware of having broken out in a cold sweat at some point, and that he was breathing hard. This was it, then. His worst fucking nightmare of a lifetime, all coming true at once. Jon hated him, and would surely never want to see his wretched liar’s face again. His mother was missing, stolen, her absence a sword hanging over his head, ready to drop at any second. And Gertrude—</p><p>Gertrude had been shot. This was not the time to stand around losing his grip. He forced a deeper, slower breath, which caught painfully in his throat, and coughed. “Fucking compartmentalize,” he growled to himself, digging his nails into his palms. “This is something you can fix. This can all be fixed. One thing at a time.”</p><p>He gathered their first aid supplies — the big kit, he always thought of it, which included several items that weren't supposed to be available to anyone outside the NHS. Then he called a Lyft, because this wasn't something that could wait on TfL's timetables. Sasha said they were in the tunnels under the Institute when Gertrude was shot — he knew exactly which one of her safehouses would let her get in and out of the tunnels unseen. If she hadn't made it back there —</p><p>Well. No borrowing trouble.</p><p>The Lyft dropped him off at the safehouse — he never fathomed how she afforded rent on an entire semi-detached in fucking Pimlico, but that was neither here nor there. He knocked on the front door, trying to peer through the generic net curtains for signs of life inside the house. "Gertrude? Are you there?"</p><p>No response. Which didn't mean anything, necessarily.</p><p>He circled around to the back garden, though he had to climb a wall to do so. (The Lyft had taken off, thankfully, and at this point he didn't give a shit if the neighbors called the police on him.) The back door was also locked, but he had fewer compunctions about smashing a window to fix that.</p><p>It was dark and still inside. "Gertrude?" he called again, climbing to his feet.</p><p>A crashing sound drew him towards the front of the house; halfway there, he noticed smears of blood on the wall. He found her sprawled across a settee, just feet from the front door where he'd just been knocking. Her own kit had tumbled to the floor — the source of the crash.</p><p>"Gertrude, talk to me," Gerry said, dropping to his knees at her side. Her shirt was half undone, exposing a bandaged wound on her shoulder, but her right arm was splinted to her side with her belt. Her face was pale and clammy, lips bluish and flecked with blood, and she seemed to be struggling just to breathe. Her eyes, however, were still terrifyingly alert, and locked onto his as he racked his brain — shoulder meant collarbone, axillary artery, brachial plexus, pectoralis major—</p><p>The bandage. It wasn't taped, though it was so soaked with blood that it was sticking to her skin. Gerry peeled up the edge, and found the bullet hole — they always looked so shockingly tidy for the amount of damage they caused. As he watched, Gertrude coughed; more blood sprayed from her mouth, and frothed out of the wound in a dark foam. Shit.</p><p>He snapped on gloves and fetched his scissors so he could cut away the rest of her blouse. "For the record," he told her as he swabbed her skin with alcohol, "I still think teaching me to do one of these was bullshit. Mary gets zero credit for saving your life, and neither do you."</p><p>The large-bore needles came in individual wrappers. He pulled one out, lined it up, and plunged it between her ribs.</p><p>There was an immediate hiss of air, and Gertrude's next breath was noticeably deeper. "Thank you," she said on the exhale, though she still coughed up a bit of blood along the way.</p><p>"You're welcome." Now that she wasn't suffocating, he took the time to dig out one of the chest seals he'd nicked last time he had to be in an A&amp;E. "Were you shot anywhere else?"</p><p>She shook her head. "Just the once. When someone is shooting at me, I don't typically hang around long enough to get hit twice."</p><p>"Exhale for a second." Once the seal was stuck in place, she was able to inhale without the horrible sucking sound of an open chest wound. Air and blood still bubbled out fitfully on the exhale, but if he understood right, that was how the dressing was supposed to work. He left the needle in anyway. "Exit wound?"</p><p>"No, unfortunately."</p><p>"What about the arm?"</p><p>"Dead weight," she reported. "I can barely move it."</p><p>"Drugs?" He wasn't really expecting her to—</p><p>"Please."</p><p>Gerry paused a moment to recalibrate. "Oral or injected?"</p><p>"I am capable of swallowing."</p><p>She'd evidently been able to get herself a bottled water from somewhere in the house before her breathing had become too compromised. Gerry popped a couple of hydrocodone tablets out of their packaging, and held the bottle for her while she swallowed.</p><p>Her color was improving, but it would take a bit before the drugs kicked in. And there wasn't much else to be done short of a hospital visit, which he knew she'd refuse. Well, one other thing. "Did I ever tell you," Gerry said, stripping off the gloves, "about the time I almost got sucked into the Buried by a badger?"</p><p>"Mary mentioned that, I think," Gertrude said. "But I don't think I've heard it from you."</p><p>A statement always perked her up a bit, after all, and at this point Gerry appreciated a little variety in his nightmares.</p><p>By the time he was done talking, Gertrude's breathing had returned to normal and she'd stopped coughing up blood. He put on fresh gloves and removed the needle. "I'll put my coat on you so we can get a taxi back to the shop."</p><p>"I assume," Gertrude said slowly, "that your presence means either Miss James or her police friend has already been by."</p><p>"Yep," Gerry said, adding a plaster over the needle hole. "Had a load of interesting things to say to Jon, too. Apparently she and Mum are making friends."</p><p>Gertrude remained silent as Gerry helped her sit upright, and held out his coat so she could get her good arm through the sleeve. When she did speak, it was uncharacteristically quiet. "I'm surprised you came for me, then."</p><p>Gerry focused on buttoning the jacket: it would help support the arm until they could get it properly tied down. "Me too," he finally admitted.</p><p>She touched his hand, very briefly. "You are a far better person than your mother."</p><p>He snorted. "That's not exactly hard."</p><p>He called another Lyft. When he tried to help Gertrude stand, she wobbled badly, and her face went pale again. "Give me a moment," she said, clinging to him.</p><p>"Did the statement not help?" Gerry asked, alarm thrumming through him.</p><p>She didn't look him in the eye when she spoke again. "I find lately that statements have … diminishing returns."</p><p>"But—" Gerry said, but then the taxi honked from outside, and he had to get her out of the house.</p><p>"No one lives forever, Gerard," Gertrude told him wryly, and let him guide her out the door.</p>
<hr/><p>Once again, as soon as Tim got off work, he took the Tube down to Morden. This time Melanie met him halfway there. "You talk to your flatmate any more?" he asked her.</p><p>"No," she said, staring at her shoes. "Reckon he needs more time to cool off."</p><p>"I thought you said he was the most laid-back person you know."</p><p>"Yeah, and when someone like that loses his temper…"</p><p>"Ah. Fair."</p><p>Pinhole was only a few streets over from the Tube station, but Tim caught himself dragging his feet. Which was stupid. He'd made up his mind. Then again, these were his last moments of freedom before he unlocked the Eldritch Wisdom or whatever Gerry was worried about. Maybe he was entitled to feeling a bit apprehensive about whatever they were going to discover.</p><p>Melanie broke into his reverie with a sharp elbow to the ribs. "Look. Who's the old lady?"</p><p>Just around the corner, Gerard was helping an old woman out of a car. She was wearing a jacket that was very clearly his, by the color and style, but one sleeve seemed to be flapping vacantly. She was trembling and clinging to him, and after several long moments Tim finally recognized her. "Gertrude?"</p><p>"Gertrude who?" Melanie asked.</p><p>Gerard must've heard them; he looked up and clearly flinched when he recognized who was approaching. Tim realized that, all this time, he hadn't actually seen Gertrude since finding out she was still alive, and he had to say, she looked every bit the frail old woman he remembered. Strange to see someone after spending so much time talking about them in the third person. "Hey! Everything all right?" he called as they approached.</p><p>"Fine," Gerard snapped. "And today is really not the day for show and tell, okay? Come back another time."</p><p>He certainly didn't object to Tim holding the door, though, so that he could get Gertrude up the stairs. She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. "Timothy Stoker. I'm surprised to see you here."</p><p>"Kind of surprised myself." On the other side of the shop's door, Melanie had caught up to them and was making a what-the-hell face. "Er, Melanie, this is Gertrude Robinson. Also works in the shop. Gertrude, Melanie King."</p><p>"From the internet," Gertrude said, and managed a laugh despite breathing heavily. "Strange bedfellows."</p><p>They made it up to the shop before Getrude had to sit down. "Apologies," she said, as Gerard flitted off to the kitchen for some water. "I'm afraid I'm no fit hostess in this state."</p><p>"We can come back if you're feeling poorly," Melanie said.</p><p>She shook her head. "I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than feeling poorly, Miss King. I've been shot."</p><p>
  <em>"What?"</em>
</p><p>Gerard returned with a glass of water and sighed explosively. "Do we really want to do this? Now? With them?"</p><p>"I'm afraid we're quite running out of options," she said. Her hand was shaking so badly that Gerard had to help her drink.</p><p>"Hang on," Tim said, struggling to orient himself. "If you've been shot, why aren't you in hospital? Shouldn't you have called an ambulance?"</p><p>Despite her pale, clammy face, Gertrude managed to give him a withering look. "I have been legally declared dead, Timothy, and am currently wanted by the Metropolitan Police, thanks to the efforts of Miss James. A hospital would be far more complicated than it's worth."</p><p>"When you've been <em>shot?" </em>Melanie asked.</p><p>Gerard sighed explosively. "Okay, ground rules. If you want to help, help. Christ knows we need it. If not, fuck off. I'll explain what happened in a minute but right now we need to get her up to bed and get some fluids in her."</p><p>"We need to call an ambulance!" Melanie said.</p><p>"Not. Happening."</p><p>Tim dropped his shoulder bag and blazer on the floor of the shop. "All right. I'll help you out with this, but <em>please </em>tell me I'm not abetting anything illegal first."</p><p>"Sorry," Gerard said flatly, and ducked back into the kitchen again.</p><p>Figured. "How illegal?"</p><p>"Conspiracy, at most," Gertrude assured him. "Accessory after the fact would be quite the stretch."</p><p>Gerard came back out with a tablecloth, and together he and Tim were able to support Gertrude in sort of a hybrid sling-travois thing. Melanie made a disgusted noise in her throat and darted up the stairs ahead of them, calling over her shoulder. "Which bedroom is hers?"</p><p>"First door on the left," Gerard called back. He caught Tim's eye. "I owe you one."</p><p>"Yeah, you do," Tim said, and began walking backwards up the stairs, trying not to jostle Gertrude too badly.</p><p>
  <br/>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Plan B</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Sasha pool information. Gertrude takes a statement. Melanie considers a career change.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Threatening Police Tactics</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sasha's flat was in an old building, charming and Victorian, though she wasn't kidding about the distance — it took two trains and a bus to get them there. She didn't speak to him except to give directions or offer a hand with his suitcase, and Jon was grateful, because he needed the time to get his head in order. Or at least properly compartmentalized.</p><p>(Gerry had told him, hadn't he, that Gertrude wasn't to be trusted? But he'd kept right on lying to Jon himself, keeping him in the dark. He'd been living with a mass killer for over a year, who'd nearly killed <em>him, </em>and then promised to help him investigate herself while sending him to do her dirty work — and Gerry just stood by and <em>helped </em>—<em> )</em></p><p>"Mary's in the office," Sasha said as she let Jon into the flat. It was cluttered, with a basket of laundry half-sorted on the couch and two bin bags teetering by the door. "Er. Sorry about the mess."</p><p>"It's fine," Jon said automatically. He set his things next to the couch and tried to school his thoughts. "Why are you so suspicious of Martin?"</p><p>Sasha shivered. "It's not — god, I don't know if I can trust anybody right now," she said. "I don't even know I can trust you."</p><p>"So why <em>help </em>me?" he asked, rather than point out he'd been thinking the same thing.</p><p>She shrugged. "Doesn't seem like a good reason to let you get murdered, does it?"</p><p>"Much appreciated."</p><p>The office turned out to be even more of a mess than the rest of the flat: there were books and notebooks scattered about, half-full mugs of tea on every surface, and draped across a set of shelves was a map of the area around the Institute, marked up in a rainbow of colors. "Your tunnels?" Jon guessed.</p><p>Sasha nodded. "I've been mapping them for weeks — well, when they're not rearranging themselves. They go for miles."</p><p>The lines certainly seemed to stretch from Pimlico up to Westminster, even under the river in places. "And … that's where George Icarus was, this whole time. Gertrude's inside man."</p><p>Sasha hesitated. "Gertrude called him <em>Jurgen, </em>actually. I think he might've been Jurgen Leitner."</p><p>It wasn't that Jon actually found anything about that <em>funny, </em>per se. More that, after the day he'd had, there were only so many revelations that he could take. He collapsed into Sasha's desk chair, stuffing one hand against his mouth to muffle the hysterical giggling, because of <em>course </em>Gertrude was in league with <em>Jurgen fucking Leitner, </em>who was not dead, and also a mysterious sewer goblin. Of fucking <em>course. </em></p><p>Sasha stepped out of the room, and came back with a glass of water. Jon took it, gratefully, when he'd got himself under control. "Sorry about that."</p><p>"No, it's — I wouldn't believe me, either."</p><p>"Oh, no, I believe you," Jon assured her. "I'm not just sure when I lost control of my life."</p><p>Sasha chuckled grimly. "I can sympathize. Are you ready to talk to Mary?"</p><p>Mary's book was spread open in the center of the desk, and Jon pulled it into his lap. Neither Gerry nor Gertrude had ever explained the full details of how the book worked to him, a fact that had suddenly become rather ominous, but he knew that she was beholden somehow to the person who actually did the summoning. Somehow, conveniently, that had never been Jon.</p><p>He read out her death now, while Sasha sorted through a notebook and collected a pen. Mary materialized in the center of the office, and smiled widely when she saw Jon. "Oh, so Gertrude <em>hasn't </em>murdered you?" she said. "What a lovely surprise."</p><p>"I need you to answer some questions," Jon said. "And I need you to please try not to be completely awful while you do it."</p><p>Mary gave him a saccharine smile. "No promises."</p><p>Probably the best he was going to get, he supposed. "How long have I been marked by the Web?"</p><p>"Oh, I've no idea," she said. "It saved you from Elias's little booby trap, though, so at least a year. When do <em>you </em>think it started?"</p><p>Not important. "Do you know what it wants with me? What Gertrude was waiting for?"</p><p>Mary tsked. "Those are some big questions, Jonathan. What can any of us say about the will of gods?"</p><p>"It is <em>not </em>my god," he snapped.</p><p>"Suit yourself," said Mary, shrugging. "Not mine, either."</p><p>Sasha broke in. "George — I mean, Leitner — he thought something had moved into the Institute after the — after Gertrude purged it. Is that also the Web?"</p><p>"Oh yes," Mary said. "Gertrude didn't realize it until your little talk, Sasha, but once she found out Raymond Fielding had moved in — well. They have a bit of a history."</p><p>"Who?" Jon looked to Sasha, who was blinking. "Who's Raymond Fielding?"</p><p>"He — the director." She blinked rapidly, looking at her notes. "That's the director. I knew that. Didn't I know that?"</p><p>"Don't trouble yourself, dear," Mary said. "Spiders do have a way of getting into your head."</p><p>"What's that got to do with me, though?" Jon asked. "I've never heard of the man, I don't work at the Institute anymore…"</p><p>Mary shrugged. "The Mother of Puppets works in mysterious ways. Gertrude, I assume, ran out of patience before she ran out of plastic explosives."</p><p>Sasha cleared her throat. "Jon, I know — I know you don't have a lot of reason to trust me," she said. "I know <em>Martin </em>doesn't have a lot of reasons to be happy with me right now. But you should know, he's been meeting with the dir— with Fielding."</p><p>A chill lanced down Jon's spine. "What do you mean, meeting with him?"</p><p>"I mean — look, he's a recluse," she explained. "Never comes out of his office, mostly gives instructions by email. Except he <em>does </em>meet with Martin, face to face. Has been for months, now. He won't talk to me about it, obviously..."</p><p>Mary clapped her hands together with an expression of ghoulish delight. "Oh, have we got a double agent? Did Gertrude miss <em>another </em>of the Web's catspaws right under her nose—?"</p><p>"I dismiss you," Jon snapped, and slammed the book shut as she melted away. It couldn't be true. It <em>couldn't. </em>Martin had helped him, Martin had lived with them — <em>just like you lived with Gerry, </em>said a traitorous voice in his head. No. Martin had tried to cut them out of his life, after the diving suit, and he'd only come back because … because of …</p><p>"Maybe it's nothing," Sasha said, though she didn't sound like her heart was in it. "Maybe — it's not like Tim and I have been very, um, present, in the past few weeks. Maybe the director really is just riding him about doing the work of three people."</p><p>Jon pressed his hands into his aching eyes. "I suppose I could just ask him." But there was no way to be sure he was telling the truth…</p><p>...unless there was? Jon hadn't actually tried to compel <em>answers </em>out of people, yet, just actions. Maybe he'd be able to sense if Martin was telling the truth, the way he'd sensed Sasha. Maybe he'd be able to tell if Martin had been … tampered with.</p><p>(Then again, he'd be using powers from the same source that did the tampering, so maybe not….)</p><p>"You could," Sasha said, echoing Jon's thoughts, "but could you be certain he's telling the truth? I don't know exactly what the Web can do to people, aside from a few stories George — I mean, Leitner told me. And those were mostly about books."</p><p>And Jon was absolutely not stopping to discuss spider-related Leitners right now. "I might have a way," he said. "Once this headache goes away, at least."</p><p>"Oh?" Sasha asked.</p><p>Jon bit his lip, considering how much to disclose. He barely knew Sasha. She just said she didn't actually trust him. Then again, considering what was happening with the people he <em>did </em>know and trust lately …</p><p>"I've got this — thing," he said, choosing his words carefully. "That I can do…"</p>
<hr/><p>Gerard seemed to have some kind of medical training, but there was only so much to be done in a bedroom. They helped Getrude change into clean clothes, elevated her feet, and improvised a splint to keep her arm immobilized, but the shards of her collarbone were visibly displaced in the swollen wreck of her shoulder. Tim wasn't sure what rest and fluids were supposed to do about <em>that.</em></p><p>"You need more drugs?" Gerard asked after helping her finish off another glass of water.</p><p>Gertrude shook her head slightly. "Not now."</p><p>"Statement?" Gerard asked, and Gertrude nodded, so he passed her a manila folder from a box under the desk.</p><p>"Light reading?" Tim guessed. He couldn't imagine concentrating on anything, given how much pain she had to be in.</p><p>Gerard waved him towards the door. "Something like that. C'mon, let's have a chat."</p><p>Once they were out of Gertrude's bedroom, Melanie immediately asked, "What do we do now? Just wait?"</p><p>"Basically, yeah," Gerard said. "I understand if you're not very good at that."</p><p>Melanie glared. "She needs surgery."</p><p>"Yeah, but she's not going to <em>get </em>it, is she?" Gerard threw himself down on the couch and rubbed his eyes. "She's tough. Like, really tough. She's not just going to drift away in her sleep."</p><p>"You don't know that," Melanie insisted.</p><p>Tim elbowed her and gave her his best Significant Look. That ship had clearly sailed. "What else do we need to do?" he asked out loud. "Or is this the part where you explain who shot an old lady?"</p><p>Gerard snorted. "Okay, first of all, she is <em>not </em>just any old lady."</p><p>"Kinda noticed that, yeah," Melanie murmured.</p><p>One corner of his mouth quirked up a bit. "She was trying to stop … some kind of occult ritual. Didn't actually share all the details with me; usually doesn’t need to. But there are people and things that serve the Dread Powers, and sometimes they decide it's a good day to do some evil magic, and then Gertrude usually blows something up with a petrol bomb."</p><p>Tim tried, and failed utterly, to integrate this into his prior knowledge of Getrude Robinson: Human Cardigan. Melanie looked impressed. "But this time the evil magicians had guns?" she guessed, and then cocked her head. "Jesus, there's a sentence I never thought I'd say."</p><p>"You get used to it," Gerard said. "As for the guns, in this particular case it was the police. Well, <em>a </em>police."</p><p>"What with the petrol bombs and all," Tim observed. Gerard made a finger-gun in his direction. Christ, the things they were getting into. "Did she at least stop the thing?"</p><p>"Not yet," Gerard replied.</p><p>Melanie stood up abruptly. "Right. I need a minute. Who wants kebabs?"</p><p>That seemed to put Gerard more genuinely off-balance than living taxidermy. "You don't," he stammered, "I mean — I've got this. You can just go."</p><p>Melanie huffed. "Please. You're dead on your feet, and she's going to need checking up on. And it's not like I've got anywhere I need to be in the morning, so."</p><p>She glanced at Tim, who shrugged. He wasn't sure he technically had any more personal days to burn, but then again, he doubted he'd get much work done knowing Gertrude Robinson was possibly dying, <em>again</em>. And Gerard was — wait a minute. "Where's Jon?" he asked.</p><p>Gerard's face fell again. "He's gone."</p><p>Melanie's eyes widened. "What, like <em>dead, </em>or—?"</p><p><em>"No," </em>Gerard said emphatically. He crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "Just — he left with Martin and he's not coming back."</p><p>Melanie made wary eye contact with Tim, who could only shrug. He supposed it was an upside that they wouldn't have to put up with another Jon versus Melanie screaming match, but the palpable <em>do not ask </em>vibes Gerard was putting out were a bit concerning. He was fine talking about petrol bombs and police manhunts but not whatever spat he'd had with his roommate? Or maybe … not a roommate? Martin never struck Tim as the homewrecker type…</p><p>Melanie cleared her throat again. "Right. Kebabs?"</p>
<hr/><p>Gerard crashed hard after they'd eaten, mumbling a disjointed apology about his shit stamina, and something about chemotherapy. Tim promised to wake him up in an hour, with no intention of actually doing so. "You might as well get some sleep, too," he told Melanie. "I'll take first watch, or whatever we want to call it."</p><p>"Sure," Melanie said, though she had her nose in a book she'd found about — big surprise — ghosts, and didn't seem likely to give it up any time soon.</p><p>She'd gone all the way to the Lidl at the end of the road on her "kebab run," so Tim was able to fix himself a coffee. She'd also bought a couple packages of Dioralyte, and about a dozen bottles of those old people nutrition shakes, complete with bendy straws, which Tim assumed were meant for Gertude. Gerard had seemed to think she'd refuse anything but water or maybe tea, but he figured he might as well offer her a selection.</p><p>The room was dark when he poked his head in, though there was just enough light to reflect off her eyes. "Hello, Timothy," she said softly.</p><p>"Can't sleep?" he asked.</p><p>"It's rather—" She sighed. "Difficult, at the moment."</p><p>"I can imagine." He switched on the bedside lamp. She looked slightly better for the rest, though she was still far too pale, and her shoulder was still a deformed lump under the bandage. The manila folder Gerry had given her was in her lap, and Tim could see the Institute's letterhead poking out along one side. "Took some work home with you, did you?"</p><p>"Something like that." She watched him set out beverage options with a jaundiced eye. "Do I have you or Miss King to thank for the Dioralyte?"</p><p>"Oh, that's all her," Tim assured her. "I only drink that stuff when I'm <em>really </em>hungover."</p><p>"Hmm." With a grunt of pain, she used her good hand to lift the glass off the tray. "Let her know, should it become necessary, I prefer the blackcurrant flavor."</p><p>Tim fought down a smile. "Will do."</p><p>He took her pulse, as Gerard had advised him, in both wrists. Not that they could do much if she was bleeding internally, but at least they'd know, right? Her bad hand was limp and very cold, but the pulse felt more or less normal compared to the other one. "I'm surprised to see you here," she said after he'd finished. "Gerard had mentioned your involvement in the Trophy Room incident to me, but nothing further."</p><p>Tim wasn't sure how to talk to her, exactly — like one of those elderly relatives you only saw at weddings and funerals, he knew plenty about her intellectually, but not enough to actually relate. He settled on his usual go-to, which was joking about it. "Well, you know, the first hit's free, but everything after that costs you."</p><p>"Hmm." She tugged the blanket up higher over herself. "But I rather suspect that wasn't your first encounter with an Entity, was it?"</p><p>"Not exactly," Tim admitted as he replaced the empty glass with a bottled water. Melanie had grabbed the type with the squeeze cap on top, so it was easier to manage one-handed.</p><p>Gertrude's eyes reflected the lamplight rather oddly. "What was it, then? Your first encounter?"</p><p>Tim should've demurred. He should've told her to fuck off. He should've taken the untouched bottle of Ensure back to the kitchen, because it was probably even more disgusting room-temperature than it was cold. He should've made something up to put her off.</p><p>Instead, almost without thinking about it, he started talking.</p><p>"So my little brother Danny, he was always better than me…"</p><p>The words just poured out, in a way they never had before, not even when he'd told Sasha about it. About Danny, his hobbies, the theatre. About Grimaldi, and the Dancer, whatever the hell it was. About finding himself standing, blinking, in the street afterwards, with a flier in a language that he didn't understand that crumbled before he had a chance to preserve it.</p><p>He felt breathless when he was done, and a little dazed. When Gertrude spoke up again, it startled him. "The Tsirk Drugoi. The Other Circus. I'm familiar with it."</p><p>Tim blinked. "You are?"</p><p>She nodded. "It was previously run by a servant of the Stranger named Gregor Orsinov. The current ringmaster calls herself Nikola Orsinov, but if Gerard's intelligence is right, I believe she is another manifestation of the same being you encountered in the guise of the Great Grimaldi."</p><p>The thing that killed his brother. That <em>skinned </em>his brother and <em>wore </em>him and — Tim took a deep breath. "And it's … they're here? In England?"</p><p>Gertrude nodded. "You'll have to ask Gerard for more details, but we believe they are planning a ritual. A very dangerous one." She paused significantly. "And we would certainly welcome your help on the issue. Especially if I'm to be on bedrest for the foreseeable future."</p><p>Help. With a ritual. Which, according to Gerard, meant gunfire and petrol bombs. Tim swiped a hand over his face, trying to get his head around all this, despite the adrenaline still coursing through him from the retelling … and why had he opened up to her in the first place? How had she known —?</p><p>"You're not," he stammered, then realized it was absurd and tried again. "You knew about me. Before you asked. You knew what I was going to say."</p><p>She tilted her head slightly. "Call it an intuition, I suppose."</p><p>Tim swallowed. "I don't tell that story to just anyone. That part of your intuition, too?"</p><p>She made a small noise in the back of her throat, and shifted minutely on the bed. "I think I'd like to try to sleep now."</p><p>Right. Because she was injured and possibly dying — though, when he looked more closely, she had a bit more color in her face than when he'd come in. "Right," Tim said, standing. "Lamp on or off?"</p><p>"Off, I think."</p><p>He switched off the light, but he was conscious of her eyes on him, in the darkness, until he'd slipped out of the room.</p>
<hr/><p>When Melanie took over monitoring Getrude, Tim told her sternly, "Don't … tell her any stories, okay? Not even if she asks."</p><p>"I wasn't planning on it?" she said, but he just shook his head and went into the third, empty bedroom to crash.</p><p>Gertrude had, miraculously, fallen asleep despite the absence of pain medication, so all Melanie had to do was keep checking her pulse and making sure her injured arm wasn't about to fall off. In between, she tried to take advantage of having a literal occult library at her fingertips, though she had to admit a lot of them were … opaque. Or at least, she didn't have the right background knowledge to fill in some of the gaps. Trying to decipher some nineteenth-century mystic's ideas about seances wasn't exactly conducive to staying awake for the hourly check-ins, but it was a better distraction than her phone, which was currently harboring about a dozen apologetic texts from Andy about how he <em>cared </em>about her and <em>respected </em>her, only there was a <em>great </em>new opportunity for him in Cardiff and he <em>really </em>didn't have time to find a subleaser—</p><p>At some point Gerard wandered out of his room, with the soft, vaguely hung-over look of someone who'd slept far deeper and longer than planned. He pointed a finger at her, but it seemed to take a minute to find words. "You. That wasn't an hour."</p><p>"Nope," Melanie agreed.</p><p>He scrubbed at his face and shook his head. "I probably needed that."</p><p>"Yep."</p><p>Gerard dropped into the chair opposite the couch and yawned enormously. "How is she?"</p><p>"Sleeping. Doesn't seem to be getting any worse, at least."</p><p>He grunted. "And you're … here."</p><p>She gave him her best stink eye. "Maybe you need to go back to sleep."</p><p>He chuckled a bit. "Sorry. Being dense. Just … I'm not used to having backup like this. So, thank you."</p><p>Oh, god, he sounded sincere. Melanie wasn't <em>good </em>at sincerity. "It's fine?" she said, putting her nose back into her book. "Not like I have anything better to do."</p><p>"Yeah, noticed your channel had kind of gone dead," Gerard said. "Sorry about that."</p><p>"It's fine," she said again, though it really, really wasn't.</p><p>Gerard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. The nails had been painted black at some point, but the lacquer was chipped and flaking. "Got a Plan B?" he asked, overly nonchalant.</p><p>"None of your business," she snapped, rather than admit she didn't. Going full-time on the show had been the dream, and it had <em>worked, </em>until Sarah fucking Baldwin and the war ghost had poisoned everything.</p><p>"Course not," he agreed. "Just … if you did need something … looks like I'm gonna have an opening on the bookshop side of things."</p><p>Melanie had to stop and stare at him while she parsed that one. "Are you serious?"</p><p>He shrugged. "You're clever, you're independent, you're not going to freak on me if I come back with, like, a severed clown's head or something—"</p><p>"Is that a thing you—?" she almost asked, but that seemed like a rabbit hole she didn't actually want to go down. "Never mind. I don't need your charity."</p><p>"I wasn't aware paying a wage for labor was charity," he said dryly.</p><p>She shut the book and stood up. "I didn't come here looking for a job, all right? I came because you promised me answers. As an equal, not as your … your <em>minion</em>."</p><p>He huffed. "Oh, I'm <em>definitely </em>not looking for a minion. Couldn't handle the responsibility."</p><p>But Melanie had had just about enough humiliation for one night, and she grabbed her jacket where she'd hung it up by the stairs. "I need some air," she announced, and didn't bother waiting for Gerard to acknowledge her.</p><p>It was either stupidly early or stupidly late, and most things in the street were closed. At least the air smelled like rain and car exhaust instead of old books and cigarettes, which was … different, if not necessarily better. Melanie took a few deep breaths and scanned the street, wondering if it was even worth it to walk anywhere at this hour, if that would even help all the pent-up frustration in her head. Maybe she should just sit on one of the chained-up tables outside the cafe next door until it opened. It was stupid and pathetic, but it at least made for a change of scenery…</p><p>Wait. Speaking of scenery, there was a gray sedan parked out front of the cafe, and the longer Melanie looked at it the more out of place it seemed. There were hardly any other cars on the street — the people who lived above the shops probably could park behind them. And a car parked out front of a closed cafe? Something about that was definitely sketchy.</p><p>Melanie walked in the direction of the sedan, as slowly as she dared, trying to make out anything about who was inside. It was hard, given how the street lights reflected off the glass, but if she could get the angle just right—</p><p>The driver's door suddenly popped open, and an arm shot out. Melanie couldn't keep her footing as she was dragged, roughly, into the car. She screamed — she was always good at using her voice — but it didn't stop her from being manhandled over the steering column and into the passenger seat. "Get off!" she roared. "Let me go!"</p><p>The door clicked shut. There was another click, the kind she'd only ever heard before in recordings, or once a foley studio back in uni. "Shut up," a woman's voice snarled.</p><p>"Daisy, no." Another, slightly lower voice cut in. "We don't know what she knows."</p><p>"She was inside."</p><p>"That doesn't mean anything."</p><p>As Melanie got her bearings, she made out two women — the driver, Daisy, was tall and lean and yes, she was absolutely holding a gun. The other, leaning in from the back seat, seemed to be shorter and broader, and she was wearing a hijab tucked into her hoodie. "Who are you?" she demanded, trying to project more anger than fear.</p><p>"Police," Daisy snapped. She wasn't pointing the gun at Melanie, but she also wasn't putting it away. She had a dramatic array of scratch marks down one side of her face, like she'd been slashed by a tiger or something, but aside from a few little butterfly strips, they hadn't been bandaged. What was with people and not going to the damned hospital around here?</p><p>The other woman leaned forward more, and said in a level voice, "I'm PC Hussain, and this is DS Tonner. We're investigating the people who live in the building you just left." She paused. "And I think we've met before, haven't we?"</p><p>"Yeah," Melanie admitted, because as the initial panic receded she realized she did know that face. "You were looking into the, uh, vandalism. At the taxidermist's in Barnet."</p><p>Detective Daisy made a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Hussain rolled her eyes. "Right. And you and your friend just happened to be there, total coincidence."</p><p>"I'm not talking to you without a solicitor," Melanie blurted. Stonewalling had worked after the Trophy Room, when she actually had done the thing, so maybe it would work now.</p><p>Daisy snorted. Hussain shook her head. "Look, we're not after you. We know Gertrude Robinson is in that flat, and we believe she's planning a terrorist attack. Something that could get a lot of people killed."</p><p>That brought her up short. <em>Stopping a ritual </em>sounded all well and good, but she hadn't asked what exactly that entailed, had she? It was one thing to exorcise a ghost, or a monster like the thing under the Trophy Room, but — Sarah Baldwin had looked human enough, until her skin tore. Might've been human once, if Tim was right. And Gerard had talked about evil magicians — <em>people and things, </em>he'd said, and she hadn't thought too hard about the people.</p><p>"You can help us," Hussain continued, while Melanie had this little revelation. "Tell us what's going on in there, yeah? We don't want anyone else to get hurt."</p><p>"Who told you she was planning — that?" Melanie asked.</p><p>"We have a source," Daisy snapped.</p><p>"What <em>kind </em>of a source?"</p><p>"The kind that was planning it with her."</p><p>Melanie suddenly felt ill. "I know this is going to sound crazy," Melanie said, "but there are real, proper monsters in the world, and apparently Gertrude … fights them? She hated how her voice rose into a questioning warble at the end.</p><p>"Our source is a monster<em>," </em>Daisy said flatly, as if she talked about this every day. "Didn't seem to be fighting him."</p><p>"But you did?"</p><p>Daisy — snarled, that was the only word for it. In the low light, it almost looked like there was blood in her teeth. Hussain added, "We've got reason to believe she also caused the deaths of over a hundred people at the Magnus Institute last year. You think all of them were monsters?"</p><p><em>Jesus. </em>Melanie took a deep breath and wondered what the hell she'd gotten herself into — no. Gerard had warned her, hadn't he, about what she was getting herself into. She's just assumed the monsters and nightmares were going to be strictly literal.</p><p>"What do you need to know?" she asked.</p>
<hr/><p>Tim didn’t get much sleep in the dingy bedroom, but he laid there for a couple of hours with his eyes shut on the squashy bed anyway, and that was better than nothing. The pillow smelled faintly of herbal shampoo and cigarettes, which Tim didn’t think much of until he rolled over and put his face straight into a cardigan. <em>This is Jon’s room,</em> his hazy brain managed to finally piece together, and he felt dimly embarrassed for not realizing it sooner. The room Jon would presumably be occupying right this minute, if he hadn’t eloped with Martin or whatever the fuck was going on there.</p><p>As if on cue, Gerard appeared in the doorway, a shadow hesitating eerily on the dim threshold. Tim sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, thinking it was time to trade shifts, but Gerard startled violently and swore through his teeth. “<em>Shit,</em> bloody hell, mate, I thought you were part of the quilt.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Tim said, less for startling him and more because he felt awkward about Gerard finding him in Jon’s bed, given, again, <em>whatever</em> the fuck was going on there. He slid off the mattress and stood, pulling his shirt down where it had gotten bunched up. “Er, did you need something in here, or-?”</p><p>Gerard looked somehow caught out, which was ridiculous, given this was his own house. “No, I — Well. I just — I need to go out, and I didn’t know where you’d gone, that’s all.”</p><p>“Out?” Tim followed him into the hall, rubbing his chin, which was getting a bit scruffy. “Does Gertrude need more Dioralyte or something?”</p><p>Gerard shook his head quickly. “Nothing like that. I just, er. I sort of need to go pick up my mum.”</p><p>“Your mum?” Tim was still shaking off the last of the grogginess, and it took him a second to catch up as they moved into the living room. He hadn’t noticed Mary Keay’s bald, spectral absence until now. “Where’s she gone? I thought she was like… A ghost or something, can ghosts even go places?”</p><p>Gerard sighed. “Well it’s not like she can just call a bloody Lyft, but my mum’s situation is a bit more complicated than that. Gertrude used to take her on, ah, <em>errands,</em> and this time I guess she dropped her.”</p><p>Tim stared for a moment, then set his hands on his hips. “Listen, mate, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna need a little more than that.”</p><p>“Right, okay, that’s fair.” Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, then sat himself on the arm of the couch with some resolve. “You know how I said she killed herself?”</p><p>Tim nodded, prompting him with a little circular gesture to continue.</p><p>“So, she did it to merge her consciousness with a magical death book, in order to transcend the limitations of her mortal form.”</p><p>“What the fuck,” Tim said.</p><p>“Yeah,” said Gerard.</p><p>Tim sat down heavily in the nearby armchair. “You’re completely serious,” he observed, incredulous. “That was a thing that happened during your <em>actual</em> childhood?”</p><p>“Well, nah, I was older,” Gerard explained, for the first time betraying a hint of discomfort. “I actually… Walked in on her, doing it. She wanted me to help.”</p><p>Tim took a moment to absorb this, and then looked at him, still perched on the arm of the couch like an awkward vampire. “That’s fucking horrible,” he said plainly.</p><p>Gerard shrugged and started to say, “Eh, it’s just part of—”</p><p>Tim shook his head. “No, that’s absolute shit. I’m sorry that happened to you.”</p><p>Gerard blinked at him, then slowly, he nodded. “I — Thanks.” He paused. “You wanna know the most fucked up thing? I was so scared she was gonna be <em>disappointed</em> in me.”</p><p>“Jesus.” Tim had no better response than a low whistle. After another brief silence, he asked, “So — No offense, but what are you even going to rescue her for? Your mum sounds like the fucking <em>worst.</em>”</p><p>Shifting uncomfortably, Gerard started to pick at his nails. “It’s not just her, it’s the <em>book.</em> It’s dangerous, I don’t want anyone else fucking with it.”</p><p>“No shit,” Tim muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That’s — I guess —” He stopped, bit his lip, then soldiered on. “Couldn’t you just burn it? Get rid of it for good, so it can’t hurt anyone else?”</p><p>Gerard considered him far more sharply than he ever had before, and for a moment Tim thought he was out of line. Then he nodded carefully, like a professor considering one of his students’ left-field theories. “Technically,” he said, “I could do that, yeah. At one point there was <em>nothing</em> I wanted more than to get rid of my mum.” He gave a dry, almost bitter laugh. “Now, though… I guess I have different priorities. Gertrude’s made her pretty harmless, and in her own way, she looks out for me.” When he caught Tim’s raised eyebrow, Gerard snorted. “I know, I know. She’s still horrible, but— Last year, I found out I had brain cancer, and Mum's the one who warned me about it. Said she could smell it on me or something, that I needed to get to the doctor no matter what Gertrude said.” Gerard tapped his temple wryly. “Sure enough, it was just in time for them to operate— Took out a tumor the size of a golf ball. Another <em>week</em> and I’d have been fucked.”</p><p>“Huh,” said Tim, because he wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Then, belatedly: “Glad you’re all right.”</p><p>“Yeah. Anyway,” Gerard straightened, looking somewhat self-conscious. “I just need to get her back, before something else goes wrong. Dunno how, but last I heard she was with your friend Sasha, which sounds like a bad combination if you ask me.”</p><p>“Hang on, <em>Sasha</em> has — ? Oh, bloody hell.” With a mild swell of dread, Tim pushed himself up from the chair. “You’d better let me go instead. The way she’s acted lately, I don’t see her giving up a — a <em>portable occultist</em> without a fight, even if it <em>is</em> your mother.”</p><p>Gerry narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”</p><p>“Oh, really? Do you even know where Sasha lives?” He waited, arms folded, while Gerard scowled at his shoes. “Right. I do, and I’ve also been friends with her for years now, so I’ve got a hell of a lot more leverage.” In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that was true — He and Sasha never properly cleared the air after the incident with the worms, and they’d only grown more distant and resentful since. However, Tim was certain he’d have better luck than Gerard showing up on her doorstep at the arsecrack of dawn, demanding she hand over his ghost mum <em>or else.</em></p><p>“Or you could just <em>tell</em> me her address,” Gerard countered darkly. “I told you, the book’s dangerous—”</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes. “So I’ll keep it shut! You’re the one with all the medical know-how, anyway, it doesn’t make sense for you to go dashing off on a fetch quest.”</p><p>To his surprise, Gerard’s shoulders sagged. “There’s something else I need to take care of,” he muttered. “Figured, you know, two birds and all that.”</p><p>“Melanie’s already done a run to the Lidl. What else is there?”</p><p>Somehow Gerard managed to hunch even further in on himself. “I need to go check on Jon.”</p><p><em>Oh.</em> Tim grimaced to himself; luckily Gerard wasn’t paying attention. “Listen,” he tried cautiously. “I know I’ve asked you a load of questions lately, but—”</p><p>Gerard cut him off. “We had a row,” he explained, waving a lethargic hand. “He — I was trying to protect him, from something, but in order to do that I had to be… Less than truthful, sometimes.” He swallowed thickly. “It’s not what I wanted.”</p><p>“Right.” Tim made a valiant effort not to visibly cringe. “Now — I don’t, you know, have all the details — I don’t need them. But if someone lied to me — <em>Especially</em> if it was an ongoing thing, I know I would want some time and space to process.”</p><p>“Guess so,” Gerard mumbled. Somehow, he looked more exhausted than he had before his power nap. “I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”</p><p>“I can text Martin for you,” Tim offered. Truthfully the chances of Martin answering were slim to none, but Tim was starting to feel a bit antsy to leave; negotiating with Sasha for an undead book witch wasn’t top on his list of fun activities, but he’d already helped nurse a gunshot wound today, and he wasn’t feeling up to relationship counseling.</p><p>Gerard made a vague noise of assent, but it sounded too perfunctory for Tim’s comfort. “Look, I’ll be back in no time,” he said, trying to sound both reassuring and decisive, as though they’d both distinctly agreed to this plan. “You and Melanie just hold down the fort.” <em>Leave it alone, mate,</em> he willed Gerard in his head.</p><p>“Melanie went out.” Gerard jerked his head toward the door. “Dunno what for. Maybe we’re out of paracetamol.”</p><p>“Must be something like that.” Tim nodded, privately cursing Melanie out for ditching him with a moody goth and a gravely wounded elderly woman. “I’ll spring for a cab, okay? Just — Stay here, Gerard.”</p><p>Finally, he looked up. “Gerry is fine, actually.”</p><p>Tim paused. “Right. Okay. Gerry. See you in like, two hours, yeah?”</p><p>“Sure.” Gerry slumped into the worn cushions of the couch, a picture of resigned misery. “Good luck.”</p><p>Tim saluted, then did his best to look casual about taking the stairs down two at a time. “Fucking hell,” he muttered to himself as he slipped out of the shop. He pulled up a rideshare app and put in half of Sasha’s address, then remembered Gertrude had been shot <em>by the police</em> and rounded the street corner swiftly. He decided to walk for a street or three before designating a pickup spot. At this point, he couldn’t possibly be too careful.</p>
<hr/><p>They let her go, in the end; it wasn't like Melanie could tell them much more than what Gerard had told her, after all, and eventually even she got tired of answering question after question with <em>I don't know. </em>No, Jon wasn't in the shop, and no, she didn't know where he was. No, she didn't know anything about Sasha James or how she figured into this, except for Gertrude's vague asides. No, she didn't know if there were weapons in the flat. No, she didn't know if Gertrude had a passport or cash or anything else that she could use to flee the country, although if she managed to do that in her present condition it would be a bloody miracle.</p><p>"You're not going to just … arrest her, are you?" she asked them, when they finally tapered off the questions. "She needs medical care."</p><p>"It's not your concern," Daisy said flatly. She'd been watching the flat, mostly, asking short, sharp questions and looking annoyed at the answers. At least she'd put the gun away.</p><p>PC Hussain, at least, seemed to have some people skills, and she'd been taking notes. "We'll take that under advisement. And we'd also appreciate it if you don't mention us to anyone inside."</p><p>Melanie scoffed at the idea. "What am I supposed to say? Sorry I was so long, got stuck in traffic?"</p><p>"Don't say anything." Daisy managed to make it sound like a threat.</p><p>"It's better if you just go home," Hussain translated.</p><p>So Melanie wandered back into the shop, bracing herself for an interrogation and strategizing what she could say in response. Maybe she should just leave. Tim surely wouldn't blame her if she went back to his flat for a change of clothes? Or maybe back to her old one to finish having it out with Andy, or get the rest of her stuff into boxes? (Hell, why not both?) Gerard didn't need both of them hanging about, now that he'd had a full night's sleep, right?</p><p>Of course, even as she was rehearsing these lines, she found the flat above the shop emptier than usual — Gerard was snoring away on the couch, and Tim was nowhere to be found at all. She hadn't noticed him stepping out of the shop while she was talking to the police, but, well, she'd been <em>talking to the police.</em></p><p>Warily, she stuck her head into Gertrude's room, because if she'd <em>also </em>somehow vanished —</p><p>Shit.</p><p>"Gerard?" Melanie called, turning around. "You <em>have </em>to call that ambulance. Now."</p><p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Retaliation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sasha hosts a sleepover. Jon is accosted in the loo. Gerry grieves.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Character Death, Police exhibiting threatening behavior</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon ended up spending the night at Sasha's, quite contrary to what he'd planned. She'd been eager to hear about his abilities, and even more eager to see him demonstrate them once Jon's head was feeling a bit better. Jon used the opportunity to try to practice compelling an answer out of someone, with mixed results.</p><p><strong>"When did you start working at the Institute?" </strong>he asked, gripping both of Sasha's hands carefully.</p><p>"Nine o'clock, most days," Sasha said, then blinked. "Oh! I don't — don't quite know why I said that…"</p><p>Jon shook his head and tried again. <strong>"What year did you begin working at the Institute?"</strong></p><p>"In 2009," she said promptly.</p><p>
  <strong>"Where did you first work?"</strong>
</p><p>"At the Oxfam down the road from our house." She tilted her head curiously. "I mean, that was my first job, like ever, when I was sixteen and wanted the pocket money."</p><p>Jon tried again. <strong>"In what department of the Institute did you first work?"</strong></p><p>"Artefact Storage."</p><p>By the time he gave up, it was late, and he'd given himself another headache. All he'd managed to prove that was he could get extremely specific answers to narrowly tailored questions, which … wasn't useless, exactly. But it definitely wasn't as use-<em>ful </em>as some of his other abilities.</p><p>He tried to call Martin, before bed, but got no answer. There was no sign Martin was even reading his texts, either, but he still sent one. <em>I'm sorry. I'll come over in the morning, if you're home. We should talk.</em></p><p>Sasha cleared off the couch for him, and Jon slept badly. When he did sleep, he was plagued by nightmares he hadn't suffered in years — of spiders and webs, mysterious doors, being puppeted by an unseen force. Of knocking, endless knocking, and the knowledge that eventually it was going to be answered…</p><p>He shot upright, heart pounding. The knocking didn't stop.</p><p>"Sorry," Sasha said; she darted through the living room in a shabby pink dressing gown, her hair tied up in a scarf. She cracked the front door without opening the deadbolt. "Hello?"</p><p>As Jon re-oriented himself to his surroundings, he heard Tim's voice on the other side of the door. "Hi, Sash. Can I come in?"</p><p>"That depends on what you're here for," she said snippily.</p><p>Tim sighed loudly. "Not for something I want to discuss in front of all your neighbors, if you catch my drift?"</p><p>"Then maybe you shouldn't be at my door at seven in the morning, should you?"</p><p>"Fine," Tim said. "I have been sent to negotiate for the return of Mary Keay."</p><p>Sasha glanced at Jon, but he couldn't think of any reason not to let him in. Well, any good ones. "Let me get some trousers on first," he said, grabbing his jeans from where he'd left them on top of his suitcase.</p><p>Tim looked exhausted, and given that he was dressed for work this early in the morning, Jon thought it likely that he hadn't been home all night. He blinked at Jon for a moment. "Hey. Didn't expect to see you here."</p><p>"What were you expecting, exactly?" Jon asked.</p><p>Tim shrugged. "Gerard told me you'd gone off with Martin. I had to talk him out of going over there to check on you, too."</p><p>Jon fought down the warm, tight feeling in his chest. Gerry had <em>lied </em>to him. Gerry had no checking-up privileges. "What else did he tell you?"</p><p>"Let's see … Gertrude's killed someone, his mum is a book, the police are involved?" Tim scratched at the stubble on the point of his chin. "That about cover it?"</p><p>Sasha sighed and went back into the kitchen. "Let me put some coffee on. This is going to take a while."</p><p>Jon muttered his own apologies and headed for the bathroom; he didn't want to go over the whole mess again at all, but since that seemed unlikely, he felt he could at least go into it with clean teeth and a fresh pair of pants. In his half-asleep state, he wasn't paying much attention to where he was going—</p><p>—until the floor under his feet shifted from smooth wood to a vaguely greasy-feeling carpet he was certain had not been in the bathroom on his last visit. Then, Jon did look up.</p><p>He was in a corridor.</p><p>It was long, windowless, gently curving to the right. Every few feet was lit by electric lamps, old-fashioned ones with rippling glass lampshades, and between them were … mirrors? Or possibly paintings that matched the garish wallpaper, creating the illusion of mirrors.</p><p>Jon turned, but there was no doorway leading back to Sasha's flat behind him. Just more corridor, still curving away to his right.</p><p>"Come into my parlor, little spider," came a voice from being him, and Jon spun around again.</p><p>The thing now occupying the corridor was … wrong. Its limbs and head were enough to register as <em>human </em>on a (very, <em>very) </em>cursory glance, but every dimension was twisted, exaggerated, unstable. Where the spiralling coils around its face <em>hair? </em>Did the deep-set, whirling eyes and knife-gash mouth actually constitute a <em>face?</em></p><p>"Who," Jon croaked, but that was a stupid question, wasn't it? "What are you?"</p><p>It laughed, a writhing sound that made Jon's stomach rock like he was on a boat even as the corridor remained stable in its outlines. "Oh, isn't that an excellent question?" it asked. It moved forward, body barely approximating something that could be called a <em>step. </em>"As if you'll live long enough for it to matter."</p><p>Jon backpedaled, in the direction he thought the hallway moved, but he ended up crashing into a mirror instead. It didn't shatter, thankfully, but when he turned to look at it he saw the thing in the corridor as a man — a tall man, but unremarkable, with curling blonde hair and a sinister smile. Totally innocuous, compared to Jon's own reflection, which was hairy and distended and had too many eyes —-</p><p>"Stop it," he blurted, turning back towards the thing. It just laughed again. "I'm not — that's not me."</p><p>"Oh, don't lie, little spider," it chuckled. "That's <em>my </em>domain."</p><p>Of course. The Spiral. That explained why the corridor wasn't behaving itself, but not — well, anything else. "I'm not a spider," Jon said again, keeping one hand on the wall as he backed away. "I don't <em>want </em>to be a spider."</p><p>"And <em>I </em>do not want to be Michael," the thing said. "We all have problems, you know."</p><p>He supposed he shouldn't be surprised at a non-sequitur from the Twisting Deceit, but it still threw him off, long enough for it to swipe at him with its impossibly large, sharp hands. Jon threw himself backwards at the last minute, which at least evaded the slash, but as he lost his footing and tumbled to the filthy carpet he knew he had only delayed the inevitable.</p><p>Unless …</p><p><strong>"Why do you want to kill me?" </strong>Jon blurted, putting every ounce of influence into the question that he could muster.</p><p>Michael (?) laughed again, but it did at least pause before ripping him to pieces. "Oh, you are a bold little spider, aren't you? Does it matter?"</p><p>"I, I just thought," Jon stammered, clawing his way back upright, "your lot preferred to, er, play with your food? A bit more than this?"</p><p>"Usually," Michael said, drawing out the <em>yuuu </em>into its own curling phrase. "But this isn't a meal, my dear spider, this is retaliation."</p><p>It slashed at him again, but Jon was alert enough to <strong>duck </strong>this time, off to one side. "For <em>what?" </em>he asked. "I haven't — I don't even know you!"</p><p>"Oh, no," Michael said. "But your Mother knows what she did. And if She's going to rob me of my revenge, the very <em>least </em>I can do is rob Her of Her victory."</p><p>Jon dodged again, and as Michael sailed past him he thought, for a moment, it was going to crash into one of the mirrors. Perhaps technically it did, but the glass didn't shatter; it didn't even ripple as Michael passed through it, and in the next moment Jon felt clawed hands close around his throat from behind, before he had time to react. "Help me stop Her," Jon blurted, with what was probably his final breath.</p><p>The hands didn't close any further. Jon felt blood trickling down his neck, but the cuts were shallow. "Oh?"</p><p>"I don't — I don't want to be <em>this," </em>Jon explained frantically. "I don't want the Mother to do — anything, whatever She's planning for me. But I can't stop it because I don't know what the plan <em>is. </em>If you just tell me—"</p><p>Michael laughed, again, but Jon's head remained on his shoulders. It gripped him by the arms instead, and spun him around in a wild pirouette. "You really don't know, do you?" it squealed. "Oh, this is delightful! <em>Much </em>more fun than simple murder!"</p><p><em>Well, thank god for that, </em>Jon thought, but he was wise enough not to say so. He extracted himself from Michael's long arms and got his back to a wall again, after making sure it <em>was </em>a wall and not a painting or a mirror. "So what do we do?" Jon asked. "How do I stop the Mother?"</p><p>"Hmmm…" It cocked its head to the side, farther than anything human should have been able to. "I don't think you do, actually."</p><p>Jon's stomach plunged. "But you just said—"</p><p>Michael advanced on him with its spiraling laughter. "Oh, my little spider friend, I <em>lie!" </em></p><p>Shit.</p><p>Jon turned and ran; it was the only thing he could do, the only option he had besides laying down and submitting to its claws. He ran down the corridor, past mirror after mirror, painting after painting — and some of them showed Michael, either its human guise or its true, hideous form, and some of them showed him, either a man or a grotesque hybrid spider —</p><p>— and then a door appeared, a plain white door with a brass handle. Jon zeroed in on it, wrenched it open, and flung himself through.</p><p>For a moment he didn't recognize where he found himself, but as he stumbled forward he found himself face-to-face with Tim, staring, and Sasha shrieking with alarm. "What the hell, Jon?"</p><p>"Is that blood?"</p><p>Jon nodded, bracing himself against a chair. "I just — had a visitor," he panted, trying to catch his breath.</p><p>Tim blinked. "You had a visitor in the <em>loo?"</em></p><p>Jon nodded. "Manifestation of the Spiral, I think. Or something adjacent to it."</p><p>Sasha, who had jumped to her feet and grabbed a handful of tissues, froze. "You mean Michael?" she asked.</p><p>"Oh, is it a friend of yours?" Jon asked, taking the tissues to daub at the blood running down his neck.</p><p>Tim rubbed his face. "Okay, sorry. I thought I was getting a handle on the situation, but — you have a man named Michael in your loo? And he stabs people?"</p><p>"Not a man," Jon said, and Sasha as well in almost perfect synch.</p><p>"Oh, sorry," Tim said. "You have a non-binary Spiral whatever in your loo?"</p><p>"I — I think it just likes doors," Sasha said nervously. "Or uses doors, or something like that. It's also the thing that showed me how to access the tunnels, originally."</p><p>"Why would a Spiral creature introduce you to the tunnels?" Jon asked.</p><p>"Why's a Spiral creature attacking you?" Sasha shot back.</p><p>Jon crumpled the bloody tissues and set them aside. "It said … something about stopping the Mother of Puppets. Killing me would stop whatever Fielding is doing at the Institute, I suppose."</p><p>"So…" Sasha paused. "Why didn't it kill you?"</p><p>Jon buried his face in his hands. "I have no fucking idea."</p><p>A familiar synthetic marimba filled the air, and Tim pulled out his phone. "Hold on, it's Melanie," he said before taking the call. "Hey. What's up?" Jon couldn't quite hear what she was saying on the other end, but Tim's face fell. "Hey, hey, slow down. What do you mean—?" He paused again, and cold dread began to pool in Jon's stomach. "Did you call an ambulance? … Of course he did. No, I'm still at Sasha's, and it turns out Jon's here, too. … All right. Be right down."</p><p>"What was that?" Sasha asked, voice quavering, as Tim disconnected.</p><p>Tim sighed. "Gertrude's dead."</p>
<hr/><p>Melanie unlocked the door of the shop when they arrived, looking frazzled and wan. “I don’t know what to do,” she announced, before anyone else had opened their mouth. “This is a mess.”</p><p>Instead of turning to lead them up the stairs she stood aside, clearly waiting for someone else to swoop in and take charge of the situation. Jon was exhausted, and hadn’t been expecting to see the inside of the shop again anytime soon, but Sasha for once looked uncomfortable at the thought of barging into a scene of mourning, and Tim appeared faintly ill. So he sighed, and trudged up the steps first, one hand on Mary’s reliquary in his bag.</p><p>He found Gerry on the living room couch, hunched in on himself, breathing quick and shallow. On the way there, Jon had imagined himself acting cold and distant, reflecting back the hurt Gerry had caused him; that was the kind of image he’d always had of himself in his head, austere and withholding, like his grandmother. But as soon as he stepped into the room, Jon knew he wasn’t capable. He didn’t speak, but he made no effort to hide his approach, either, taking out the book that bound Gerry’s mother and holding it in front of him. When Gerry looked up with a sudden, jerky movement, what looked like a reservoir of tears spilled from his eyes all at once. “You brought Mum,” he said hoarsely, disbelieving, and reached out for the book.</p><p>Last night when he’d replayed, briefly and painfully, those last moments in the shop, Jon had taken Gerry’s lack of protest, the way he avoided Jon’s eyes, as a sign of dismissal. He had concluded it must mean that everything between himself and Gerry, every last inside joke and secret grin flashed at him across the room, was purely in support of Gertrude’s campaign to study him, the double agent, the would-be-saboteur. Then their fingertips brushed as Jon passed Mary’s book to him, and suddenly he understood. He <strong>felt</strong> it. <em>Gerry was the weak link. Gerry was the disappointment. Gerard Keay was not meant to care for anyone, and he should never have broken the rules.</em></p><p>Gerry took the book from him and Jon was stunned to watch him cradle it to his chest; he realized it was probably the only way Gerry could hug his mother, corporeal or otherwise, and it hurt to <em>know</em> that without asking, without feeling for it, just by watching and filling in the blanks. He couldn’t just stand there while they both hurt, so he sat down, and put a hand on Gerry’s tense, trembling shoulder. When nothing happened, he added a little pressure, until Gerry tipped unceremoniously sideways against him with a small, shaky sob. “I wanted to tell you,” he croaked, so quiet that Jon barely heard him. “But then you would have <em>left,</em> and — What if she decided you knew too much?”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Jon said lowly, still wrestling with how much, how <em>long</em> he had been lied to. “You don’t know I would have left.”</p><p>“You were a <em>witness,</em>” Gerry burst out, pushing away from him and grasping his shoulders, stricken. “She shot him, Elias, and you <em>saw</em> her holding the gun — Jon, I think she almost shot you too, except she thought you were already dead.”</p><p>“... What?” Jon shook his head weakly; he didn’t really have it in him for more shock this morning. “That — that’s not — I don’t remember that. I never saw — ?”</p><p>Gerry’s grip on his shoulders tightened. “It doesn’t matter. You were there, and you could have remembered, and — I am so, so sorry, Jon, I wanted to tell you, I was <em>going</em> to tell you once she left town, I just didn’t want you to get hurt—” His eyeliner was a mess. Jon wanted to reach up and fix the smudges, or better yet find him a warm, wet cloth to gently take it off with. Gerry had long, striking eyelashes, but they were so fair they were almost transparent, even up close.</p><p>“It’s not important,” he heard himself saying, and he sounded surprisingly calm.</p><p>“Yes it <em>is,</em>” Gerry ground out. “Of course it is, I <em>hated</em> lying to you, I — ”</p><p>“No it’s not,” Jon insisted, amazed at the softness in his own voice. “It doesn’t matter right now. We can talk about it later, there’s too much — I can’t be angry at you through all this. I can’t make you handle Gertrude alone, a-and I — Well. It’s barely been twenty-four hours, but I — I missed you.”</p><p>To his mild horror, Gerry started to cry in earnest. “You’re so <em>good,</em>” he wept, crumpling in on himself. “You think you’re not, but you’re <em>lovely,</em> how can you sit there and tell me you don’t care if I hurt you—”</p><p>“Of course I do!” Jon burst out, startled by the sheer fondness of his own exasperation. “For Christ’s sake, Gerry, fine, you’re a bastard and I hate you, is that what you want me to say? But clearly I can’t stop <em>caring</em> about you just because you’re a shit, so I’m here, all right? I’m here, and I’m staying.”</p><p>Once again, Jon got an arm around Gerry's shoulders, and this time Gerry didn't push him away. He rubbed soft circles into Gerry's back, and let him cry himself out; he had no tears of his own for Gertrude, but he could still stack up resentments, and he found himself cursing her for leaving them like this, with no answers, just grief.</p><p>A mug appeared in his peripheral vision; Tim had apparently made tea. Jon didn't see where Sasha and Melanie had disappeared to, but he was grateful for the privacy. He took the tea, for the caffeine if nothing else, and coaxed Gerry into at least holding a mug, even if he couldn't manage to sip between hiccupping gasps.</p><p>There was a knock on the door from far below, because of course there wasn't enough for them to keep track of. "I've got it," Tim said, taking the stairs at a trot.</p><p>"Thanks," Gerry croaked. He swiped at his face, then grimaced at the mess of make-up and snot that ended up on his hand. "Fuck."</p><p>"I'll get you a tissue," Jon said, and made to stand.</p><p>Gerry grabbed his hoodie in his less-disgusting hand. "No. Fuck it. I can be gross for a bit."</p><p>It felt strange to laugh, under the circumstances, but that didn't stop a chuckle from fighting its way out of Jon's chest. Gerry caught his eye, and offered a wan smile.</p><p>From the bottom of the steps, he heard Tim shout, <em>"Hey!" </em>followed by a tumble of heavy footsteps, ascending.</p>
<hr/><p>She looked small, in death. Small and plain and utterly normal. Even the bandages were pristine, as if a spot of blood would've been an embarrassment. Gertrude Robinson had died an utterly mundane death.</p><p>"Damn it," Sasha muttered, drowning in frustration. This wasn't how she'd meant for any of this to go! She wanted to stop Gertrude, not kill her. She wanted justice, accountability, not — this. Not like this.</p><p>Melanie cleared her throat; Sasha hadn't even noticed her follow her into the bedroom. "Gerry refused to call an ambulance," he said. "I don't know what else to <em>do, </em>though."</p><p>"It's a mess," Sasha said, echoing Melanie's own words. "I didn't think — it wasn't supposed to go like this."</p><p>"Did you—" Melanie said, and then stopped. Bit her lip. "There's two police officers outside."</p><p>Sasha's stomach plunged. "There are, are there?"</p><p>Melanie nodded. "They were watching the shop last time I went outside. They asked me about her, about whatever the fuck is going on in here, but I couldn't exactly tell them a lot, could I?" She bit her lip. "Maybe if I hadn't been out there, with them—"</p><p>"So you're a trauma surgeon, are you?" Sasha asked, as gently as she could. "Paramedic? Faith healer?"</p><p>"I know, I know," Melanie groaned. But she continued, "They told me she killed people. "Like, a lot of people. And I don't know? What to think about — all this?"</p><p>"Me neither," Sasha admitted. She'd expected it to be satisfying, seeing Gertrude face consequences — but there was nothing satisfying about Gerard's sobbing outside, or the limp body on the bed in front of her. A small voice in her head wondered if he could <em>really </em>be so broken up about it, if it wasn't all just an act — but thoughts like that were exactly how they'd ended up here, wasn't it? Paranoia and obsession and pushing, always pushing, and now someone was dead, and it was utterly <em>ghoulish </em>of her, but she just couldn't <em>stop.</em></p><p>"Did she stop the thing, at least?" Melanie asked.</p><p>"What thing?"</p><p>She threw her hands up in a helpless gesture. "Gerard said there was a thing, some kind of ritual. And Gertrude was trying to stop it."</p><p>Right. Whatever the Web was doing in the Institute, with Martin, and the di— <em>Raymond Fielding. </em>She clung to that name, no matter how it tried to slip away from her. That was still a threat, something Sasha <em>knew </em>to be a threat, something that needed to be stopped. Preferably without killing anyone else. "There's something at the Institute," she said. "But … right now, I don't even know where to begin."</p><p>"That makes two of us, I guess?" Melanie said with a little laugh.</p><p>Anything Sasha might've said back to that was interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps from outside the bedroom. Detective Tonner's voice was audible even through the heavy wooden door, and Sasha's heart began to pound. "Where's Robinson?"</p><p>Gerard replied, though his voice was still thick from crying. "Where's your warrant?"</p><p>"I know she's here. Where's she hiding?"</p><p>Another voice, presumably Tonner's partner: "She's not in the shop."</p><p>Sasha wrenched the bedroom door the rest of the way open with a great honk of wood on wood. "She's in here," she said aloud, barely banking her fear and anger. "But if you wanted her alive, you shouldn't have shot her."</p><p>Tonner tossed her head to her partner, who slipped past Sasha and into the bedroom to check. "No one say anything else," Gerry said loudly; he and Jon were still standing by the couch, and Tim was lurking helplessly by the stairs. "Nobody say a fucking word."</p><p>"If that's how you want it, we can take you all down to the station," Tonner sneered. "Bet we could have some fun with you, given your priors."</p><p>Gerry raised his chin despite the mess of snot and eyeliner all over his face. "I am invoking my right to remain silent."</p><p>The other police officer emerged from the bedroom. "She's dead. I'll call it in."</p><p>Tonner nodded sharply. "Let them know it's a weird one. Category one." She looked at everyone else in the room in turn as her partner went downstairs. "That means this building is now a crime scene."</p><p>"Excuse me?" Sasha blurted, horrified. "You're literally the one who shot her—"</p><p>"Sasha, shut up!" Gerry snapped.</p><p>But Tonner was turning towards her now. "What are you even doing here, James? You're not an employee, you don't live here." Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe you wanted to get rid of the old woman for your own reasons, yeah?"</p><p>Sasha could only gape. "I was trying to stop a murder, I told you—!"</p><p>Gerard shouldered forward, dangerously close to Tonner, considering how her hand was hovering near a conspicuous bulge under her jacket. "Leave her out of this," he said. "She <em>helped </em>you, and she hasn't got a record."</p><p>Tonner's expression was searching, and Sasha realized abruptly what this was. She wanted someone to frame. Gerard had been accused of murder before, and he might've been the last person to see Gertrude alive. Even if Sasha tried to tell another police officer about Tonner and the tunnels, who would believe her? Who wouldn't look at Gerard Keay and another dead old woman and at least find it grounds for a thorough investigation…?</p><p>But Jon grabbed Gerard by the back of his shirt and physically pulled him back. "Gerry, no. Just don't say anything."</p><p>"You have something you want to contribute, Sims?" Tonner asked.</p><p>Jon paused, and then looked Tonner squarely in the eyes. "You'll have to <strong>arrest me</strong> to find that out, won't you?"</p><p>The hair on the back of Sasha's neck prickled, the same way it had prickled when Jon had pulled answers out of her back at her flat last night. Tonner's upper lip curled, just slightly, and she pulled a pair of metal handcuffs from out of her pocket. "Fine. You're under arrest in connection with the murder of Gertrude Robinson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court...."</p><p>Over the top of the speech, Gerard shouted "Jon, <em>no," </em>and Jon assured him it would be fine. Tim took Gerard's arm, but he looked as lost and helpless as Sasha felt. She could only watch, disbelieving, as Tonner marched Jon down the stairs and out of the building.</p>
<hr/><p>They searched Jon at the police station, and took his phone and his keys and the laces from his trainers. They asked him about the cuts on his throat, about any medications he might need, about whether he had a solicitor. He did not, in fact, have a solicitor, and it was beginning to dawn on him that perhaps he'd made a mistake.</p><p>"Is there anyone you want to be notified of your arrest?" the custody sergeant asked, and Jon almost said no; everybody who might be interested in his arrest had watched it happen, after all.</p><p>No, wait. Not everyone.</p><p>"Martin Blackwood," Jon said, and recited his mobile number so the custody sergeant could dial it. She passed the handset of the phone to him, though it was awkward holding it with his hands cuffed.</p><p>He listened to the line ring, waiting, begging for Martin to pick up. If he could send a compulsion through a telephone wire or a cellular signal, he would've done it. Instead, he got voicemail. <em>"Hi! You've reached Martin Blackwood, leave a message at the beep and I'll get right back to you!"</em></p><p>Jon sighed. "Hi, Martin. It's me. I, erm … it's a long story. Gertrude is dead, and I'm safe, for now. Gerry can fill you in on what happened, or Sasha, or … Tim, I guess? I think we can trust Tim." The words threatened to catch in his throat; he had to push them out. At that moment he wasn't thinking about spiders or conspiracies or double agents. "I am so, so sorry I didn't come home last night. I … should've gone home."</p><p>He gave the phone back to the sergeant. She hung up, and led him off to be fingerprinted.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. What Do We Do Now?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon does some jail time. Sasha and Melanie do some sleuthing. Tim and Gerry get drunk.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Mind Control (The Web)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It turned out that being arrested was surprisingly boring once the initial hubbub had settled down. Jon stared at the wall of his cell, wondering if they were actually planning to call a solicitor for him, if they were going to question him at all. Surely Detective Tonner couldn't just … charge him with things? There were laws, and such. God, he suddenly wished he'd paid more attention to his grandmother's police procedurals. Then again, he didn't suppose <em>Midsomer Murders </em>had ever covered an avatar of the Web, or whatever it was he was becoming.</p><p>He laid down on the bench; the thin vinyl pad crinkled as he tried to get comfortable. So much for catching up on his sleep. Maybe he should focus on trying to come up with a convincing story for the solicitor when they finally arrived…</p><p>The sound of creaking hinges caused him to sit bolt upright again. The cell door, the obnoxious blue steel one, remained firmly shut and locked. Another door, however, had opened on the wall to its left: a wooden door, dark yellow, with a matte black handle. Long sharp fingers were easing it open, and Jon hoped, desperately, that someone would realize he wasn't alone in here before he was killed.</p><p>"Hello, little spider," Michael said, popping its head out of the doorway.</p><p>"Back to finish me off?" Jon asked, loudly.</p><p>Michael giggled. Outside of the corridor, it wasn't quite as nauseating, but it still grated on Jon's ears. "Oh, no, not at all! I just thought you might be in need of a door."</p><p>It lies, Jon reminded himself. "Why would I want that?"</p><p>"Well, for one thing, it's <em>ever </em>so boring in here," Michael said, emerging fully from the door. It didn't look fully human, not to Jon, but was still far from the nightmare that dwelled in the corridor. "You're all alone, with four walls and a floor. Right angles as far as the eye can see."</p><p>"I'm also safe here, for now," Jon pointed out. "I imagine the Mother will have a very difficult time using me for Her mysterious plans when I'm surrounded by police."</p><p>"For now," Michael said. "But the Mother isn't the only thing you have to worry about, of course."</p><p>Jon sighed. There was a point, apparently, when his fear of a thing ran out, only to be replaced with irritation. He hadn't hit that point with Mary for months, but Michael was apparently quite the prodigy. "Please make up your mind if you're going to kill me or not."</p><p>"I'm not going to <em>kill </em>you, little spider," Michael admonished him. "I told you, I changed my mind! I was referring to the Hunters outside this dreadful little room. <em>They </em>aren't quite as changeable as I am."</p><p>Jon almost asked, <em>what hunters? </em>But then he remembered the look in Tonner's eyes, the smell of blood in his nose when he tried to compel her … Christ. No wonder she'd been willing to arrest him instead of Gerry. "She can't," Jon stammered, "she can't actually — there are procedures — things —"</p><p>"And are you willing to bet your life on those?" Michael asked. "Even if the Hunter doesn't get you, the Mother has oh so many children…"</p><p>And Jon had gone and isolated himself from any possible allies. Brilliant. <em>Splendid job, Jon.</em> He eyed the yellow door, and the glimpse of curving corridor beyond it. "How do I know you'll let me out again?" he asked. "Or where you'll let me out?"</p><p>Michael shrugged. "Give me a destination. Wherever you like."</p><p>"And you'll take me there?"</p><p>"You haven't really got a choice, have you?"</p><p>Jon sighed. He could wait around and see if they really did phone him a solicitor, if this just became a mundane arrest followed by a release for lack of evidence. They could only hold a person for so long, right? How long before the solicitor got here? Before Detective Tonner found an excuse to take him somewhere that the cameras couldn't reach…?</p><p>"This is a time-limited offer, little spider," Michael said in a warning tone.</p><p>Jon sighed. "Fine. Okay. In for a penny, I suppose." Getting arrested again for escaping from jail was, on the balance, the least of his worries at the moment.</p><p>Michael opened the door wide, exposing the awful corridor. "Where are we going?"</p><p>There was only one place Jon had in mind, one person he needed see. "Martin Blackwood's flat. If, ah, if you know where that is."</p><p>"As long as <em>you </em>know where that is," Michael said, with a mocking little bow. "After you."</p><p>Jon squared his shoulders, and prayed he wasn't making a terrible mistake. He stepped out of his cell, and into the twisting corridors.</p>
<hr/><p>Constable Hussain chased them all out of Pinhole Books — "It's a <em>crime scene" — </em>though Gerard was at least allowed to pack a few things into a rucksack first. Melanie followed Tim and Sasha down to the street, and with nothing else to do, they stole a table at the (now-open) cafe to watch the police move in and out of the building. Tonner was gone with her gray sedan, presumably to take Jon off to jail.</p><p>"So what do we do now?" Melanie asked, once Gerard joined them. Not that he seemed to have any ideas; he'd cleaned his face off, but he still looked raw around the edges, and he was holding the book (that apparently contained his mother's ghost?) in his lap like someone might try to steal it.</p><p>Tim shook his head. Sasha, who'd ducked inside the cafe for a coffee, said tentatively, "There's still something going on at the Institute."</p><p>"Fuck your institute," Gerard said. "Burn it to the ground."</p><p>"The people who still work there—"</p><p>"Then burn it in the middle of the night!" He said it loudly enough to get the attention of a police constable, not Hussain, who was standing guard on the entrance to the shop; Melanie kicked him in the ankle, but he just continued in a lower voice, "That fucking place has been the cause of more misery in the past year and a half — Christ. I don't know why Gertrude didn't destroy it from the beginning."</p><p>Sasha took a deep swallow of her coffee, and said, "We could ask her?"</p><p>"What the hell are you—?" Gerard stopped, and literally looked down at the book in his lap. "Oh, fuck you too."</p><p>"What are you talking about?" Tim asked warily.</p><p>"I'm not putting Gertrude in the book," Gerard said flatly.</p><p>"Mary said you know how," Sasha said, in a vaguely cajoling voice.</p><p>"My mother's moral compass is a rotating fan."</p><p>Melanie made a time-out gesture with her hands. "Okay, pause for question — what does the book <em>do? </em>Bring someone's ghost back or something?"</p><p>"Something like that," Gerard said. "They can physically manifest, talk a bit. Mum can interact with solid objects, but not the other pages."</p><p>Melanie eyed him, suspicious. "What's the catch?"</p><p>Gerard bared his teeth. It could generously be called a smile. "The <em>catch </em>is that the pages are made of human skin. You've got to enter a sort of trance state, really channel the moment of death, and write it out on their corpse. Then you peel them, dry them, and sew them into the book."</p><p>Melanie didn't have a weak stomach, exactly, but she had to swallow hard on the word <em>peel. </em>Tim's face was ashen, as he turned to Sasha. "And you want to do <em>that </em>to somebody?"</p><p>"She knew what was going on in the Institute," Sasha said mulishly. "Or at least she knew enough to know why it had to be destroyed. She could help us, and unless you've got a Ouija board stashed away somewhere, this is the only way to find out what she knew."</p><p>"This is a little more invasive than a Ouija board!" Tim exclaimed.</p><p>"Besides," Melanie put in, "the police aren't exactly going to let us back up there with a Sharpie and a kitchen knife, are they?"</p><p>"Are you considering this?" Tim asked her.</p><p>"Of course I'm not," Melanie said, but in her peripheral vision Sasha's face turned mean.</p><p>"So it's all right for <em>you </em>to run off chasing the truth about <em>your </em>thing, whatever it takes?" she demanded. "Damn the torpedoes as long as it's about <em>Danny, </em>but for when anyone else's life is at stake you're suddenly squeamish?"</p><p>"This is a long fucking way past <em>squeamish," </em>Tim said, as angry as Melanie had ever seen him. "You're talking about, about desecration of a corpse, for Christ's sake."</p><p>"Right, I forgot you were so bothered by <em>taxidermy," </em>Sasha snapped back.</p><p>Tim rocked backwards like he'd been slapped. "What the fuck are you on about?"</p><p>"The Trophy Room?"</p><p>"I never told you about that," Tim said flatly. He glanced at Melanie and Gerard. "Did you tell her — ?"</p><p>Melanie shook her head; she'd just had her first-ever conversation with Sasha an hour ago. "Spying on co-workers, are we?" Gerard asked. "Or did you just take a walk through Tim's desk?"</p><p>Sasha's face had gone slack. "I'm not spying on anyone," she said.</p><p>"Then how'd you know about the Trophy Room?"</p><p>"I — I don't know —"</p><p>Tim scoffed. "You really expect me to believe that?"</p><p>Sasha stood up abruptly; her chair screeched against the pavement, and the police officer by the door looked up again. "Fine. If you won't help me, I'll just — I'll go."</p><p>"You do that," Gerard said loudly, and Sasha all but ran off, leaving her coffee behind on the table.</p><p>For a bit longer, they sat in silence, Tim stewing and Gerard sulking. Thing was, Melanie could hardly blame Sasha for wanting answers — it would be a bit pot-and-kettle. And she understood, on a fundamental level, the need to be <em>doing </em>something, to be working towards a goal instead of just sitting around. Like they were doing now. Fuck.</p><p>"You gonna need a place to stay tonight?" Tim asked Gerard, eventually.</p><p>Gerard pushed some hair out of his face. "Probably not. Depends on how long they decide to keep all this going." He waved back at the shop. "But I've got enough cash for a couple nights in a hotel room."</p><p>"You don't have a free couch, anyway," Melanie reminded him.</p><p>"I have an air mattress!" Tim countered. He scrubbed a hand over his face wearily. "I'm just saying, we all need some sleep. Like, a week of sleep. Maybe two weeks."</p><p>"Thanks," Gerard said, in a choked voice. He honestly looked like he might be able to cry again. "I — I mean — I should stay here, for now. They'll probably want to question me."</p><p>"In that case, you're going to need a coffee," Tim said, standing. "My shout."</p><p>Gerard ducked his head. Melanie was almost certain he was tearing up again. "I want an americano," she said. "But I'm not staying."</p><p>"Not staying, no coffee!" Tim called over his shoulder.</p><p>Fine. She'd stay long enough for coffee. But Melanie was good at doing, not waiting, and she wasn't going to get anything done here.</p>
<hr/><p>By the time Basira got back to the station, it was late in the morning, and she'd burned through the meager suhur she'd managed during their stake-out. The first place she stopped was Daisy's office. Daisy was pacing, tight loops around the desk, except when she stopped to scratch at the wounds on her face. Wounds from the monster that told her about Robinson, she'd said, and Basira hadn't had to ask where said monster was now.</p><p>"Why did you arrest Sims?" Basira asked, once the door was locked.</p><p>"He was asking for it," Daisy growled.</p><p>"It was a stupid move," Basira countered. "You're not going to be able to produce a weapon, he's got two people who can testify that he wasn't even in the house until morning—"</p><p>"I know!" she barked, and slammed a fist onto her desk, hard enough that the vibrations knocked over her nameplate and the cup of pens she kept next to it. "I know, Basira, I let that little freak goad me into something and it was stupid. But Robinson's dead and I —" she broke off, inhaling through her teeth.</p><p>Basira carefully put a hand on her arm; Daisy twitched, but allowed it. "I get it, okay? She killed so many people and it's eating me up to think she was walking around free for this long. But you can't draw too much attention to this, or someone might actually stop and question Sasha James, and then it'll be obvious this was a stitch-up."</p><p>Daisy nodded, staring into the middle distance. "I want to hold onto Sims," she said. "Just to the twenty-four hour mark. Gives us some leverage on Keay."</p><p>"You think he's an accomplice?"</p><p>"I think he knows something."</p><p><em>Then why didn't you arrest him? </em>Basira didn't ask, because Daisy was already twanging like a strung wire. "All right. I'm going to check in with Carver. You gonna be okay here?"</p><p>Daisy's nostrils flared. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."</p><p>"Right."</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha went back to her flat, walking the last leg from the Tube station instead of taking the bus in a bid to burn off some of the frantic energy that wouldn't leave her. If she tired herself out, maybe she wouldn't keep coming back to Tim's face, horrified and angry and disgusted with her—</p><p>She had looked up the Trophy Room for him! It was part of her Sarah Baldwin file! She hadn't remembered right away, she'd been too flustered, but that was definitely where she heard about the taxidermist. And it wasn't fair for Tim to jump to conclusions like that, much less Gerard, who barely even knew her.</p><p>She needed to put this energy somewhere useful. She needed to find out whatever she could about the Web.</p><p>Jon had left most of his things at her flat — they'd left in too much of a rush. Jon was her only other link to the Web, if Gerard wasn't going to consider binding Gertrude. (It sounded awful. It probably <em>was </em>awful. But weren't lives at stake?) He had shown her some of his notes about his compulsion powers, and she dug through them, squinting to read his tiny, jagged cursive. The larger, loopy writing was probably Martin's — god. Martin didn't know about any of this, did he? Even if he was compromised, she should call—</p><p>Her phone buzzed, which startled her so badly she nearly threw the notebook across the room. It was a text from an unknown number. <em>hey. it's melanie. can we talk?</em></p><p><em>How did you get this number? </em>Sasha shot back, instantly wary.</p><p>
  <em>nicked tim's phone. i'm alone.</em>
</p><p>She bit her lip. She knew nothing about Melanie that Tim hadn't shared, except that she'd cooperated with the police and … this, now. Melanie could be anyone. She could be capable of anything.</p><p>Sasha was so tired of being suspicious, though.</p><p>
  <em>What do you want to talk about?</em>
</p><p>Melanie's reply took a while, long enough for Sasha to spin up several wild theories and then scold herself and discard them. <em>you said there's still a thing going on that g wanted to stop. how do we stop it?</em></p><p>Sasha looked at all the mess strewn around her flat. <em>I don't know, </em>she admitted.</p><p>By the time Melanie came over, Sasha had organized things somewhat. She'd also resorted to moving her map of the tunnels into the living room, so she could properly access her bookshelves. Melanie gave a long, low whistle when she saw the poster. "Going properly Pepe Silvia here, are we?"</p><p>"I'm not that far gone," Sasha said defensively.</p><p>Melanie winced. "Right, sorry. These are your tunnels?"</p><p>Sasha explained about the tunnels, while sorting out Jon's notes, though she had to segue into talking about Leitner partway through. It felt … good, to tell someone else everything, even with the gnawing suspicion that any moment Melanie was going to interrupt, dismiss her, mock her. Betray her. Melanie did interrupt a few times for clarification, but it was always a smart question, or something Sasha herself hadn't explained clearly enough on the first pass.</p><p>For instance: "How did you find the tunnels to begin with?" She asked while paging through Sasha's notes on Smirke, which were really copies of Tim's notes with her addenda in the margins. "Did you go through the Institute, or …?"</p><p>"I — something showed them to me." She swallowed. "A being called Michael, which I think used to be one of Gertrude's assistants? When it was human, anyway. But it's become some kind of manifestation of the Spiral since then, and I'm not sure what it wants."</p><p>Melanie flipped to another page. "Spiral is … madness? Fear of losing touch with reality?" She glanced up at Sasha. "Seems like it's done a number on you, all right."</p><p>Sasha shook her head. "I'm not — I know I'm not crazy," she insisted.</p><p>"Which is totally a thing that people just say, casually, when nobody's calling them crazy," Melanie pointed out.</p><p>Was that it? Was this all just a long game by Michael, to make Sasha doubt herself? Was Michael Shelley a red herring? It was the manifestation of lies, of <em>course </em>it had lied to her, might've even left hints knowing she'd draw the wrong conclusions … "It also visited Jon," she said, seizing on the conversation they'd had on the way back to Pinhole. "Just this morning. Said something about revenge. I think it wanted revenge on Gertrude for whatever she did to it when it was human, and somehow thought I'd be the one to exact it. Which," she added morosely, collapsing onto the couch, "I suppose I did. I'm the one who brought Daisy into the tunnels, after all."</p><p>"Michael didn't make you do that, though," Melanie pointed out. "What if it wanted to show you something else down there? Like this Leitner guy?"</p><p>Sasha shrugged. "He's been in hiding for twenty years. Why send me after him now?"</p><p>"Maybe now is when it found out where he was."</p><p>Around and around and around; it was making Sasha sick. "I still don't know what Raymond Fielding wants with the Institute. How Martin fits into any of this, or Jon. Gertrude apparently didn't realize Fielding was a threat until I told her he had us reconstructing old statements salvaged from the archives…"</p><p>Melanie seized on Sasha's train of thought. "And she burned those on purpose, right? To stop the, the eyeball thingy, from using the Institute as a temple?"</p><p>"So what would the Web want with an archive?" Sasha asked. "They're different powers."</p><p>They stared at one another over the coffee table. This was <em>exactly </em>why Sasha had wanted to question Gertrude!</p><p>Instead, Melanie yawned, and then looked mortified. "Sorry. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, what with … everything."</p><p>"I understand." Sasha's own frenetic energy was starting to burn out, finally, though she couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time. "I wish I had something actually constructive to do right now, instead of chasing my own tail…"</p><p>"Yeah, I know the feeling," Melanie said. "I'm supposed to be hunting for a new flat now, I guess? But it's hard to prioritize that sort of thing with … all this."</p><p>"Right." Sasha laughed. "The Institute's probably going to fire me any day, for all the work I've missed. I'm astonished they haven't already."</p><p>"I'm a little surprised you haven't quit, to be honest."</p><p>"Couldn't afford it." She sighed. "And now … I'm not sure I want to, to be honest? If I even have the choice. That sounds bad, doesn't it?"</p><p>"I'm still technically working for a YouTube channel that hasn't posted anything in over a year," Melanie observed, bone-dry.</p><p>Sasha laughed. "So we're both disasters."</p><p>"Well, I wouldn't go <em>that </em>far."</p><p>They debated Fielding's possible plans a bit more, but it felt increasingly like they were talking in circles. Melanie volunteered to take Jon's suitcase and rucksack back to Pinhole Books, and even helped Sasha sweep the flat to make sure nothing was left behind. "Thank you," Sasha told her, as she prepared to go. "For talking, I mean. Even if we didn't come up with anything new."</p><p>"Yeah, well," Melanie shrugged a bit. "My other options were house-hunting or hanging around with Gerard, you know? I'm not ... great at feelings."</p><p>"Well, you make a pretty great conversationalist."</p><p>Melanie bit her lip for a moment, then murmured, "What the hell," and set down the suitcase to rummage in her purse. She came up with a creased business card, which she offered to Sasha. "My number's on there, and all my social media. If you ever want to go out sometime when it's not ... all this?"</p><p>"I ... oh!" Sasha's instinct was to laugh, but she really didn't think Melanie would take that well. "I don't date, really, but ... maybe as friends?"</p><p>"I can do friends," Melanie said. "Christ knows I need more of them."</p><p>"I can relate."</p><p>Once Melanie was out the door, Sasha was alone with her churning thoughts again, and the nagging feeling that they were running out of time. She paced back and forth in front of her map, despite the blisters on her heels and the occasional yawn, and kept going back to her notes, Jon's notes. Fielding, Michael, Gertrude. All these moving pieces and she couldn't even see the board. </p><p>She was <em>missing </em>something. What was it?</p>
<hr/><p>Talking to the police was weird. When they'd picked Gerry up after his mum's death, soaked in blood and half-hysterical, the whole thing had seemed pretty cut and dried: even his solicitor had seemed more focused on mitigating the inevitable prison term than actually making a case for his innocence, no matter what Gerry told him.</p><p>This time, however, the police didn't seem to know what they were actually looking for once Tonner and her partner took off. They tossed Gertrude's room, but not the rest of the flat, and didn't bother searching the shop at all; they let him right back in after his interview. The questions themselves were cursory and scattered — <em>When did you find out she was hurt? What time did you discover she was dead? Who was the last person to speak to her? </em>It was almost like they weren't aware someone had been arrested already. (The more cynical part of Gerry actually suspected they weren't, but he pushed that down — it did <em>not </em>bode well for Jon if true.)</p><p>Tim hung around basically all day, even after the police had had their turn with him. Melanie was in and out. Gerry didn't know if he was grateful for their presence or not: he didn't know what to <em>do </em>with them, but they weren't actually in the way, and being alone with his thoughts wasn't much better. His thoughts were endlessly pinging between worry for Jon, grief for Gertrude, guilt and anger that were as much aimed at himself as anybody else—</p><p>"Oi," Tim called, sticking his head in the kitchen, where Gerry had been busy staring into an empty cup of tea for some time. "Melanie's just gone. She went on a rescue mission to get the stuff Jon left at Sasha's."</p><p>Hadn't Jon left with Martin? Gerry couldn't keep track of this shit anymore. "Great," he said. "Hope nobody got skinned in the process."</p><p>Tim grimaced. "Yeah. I — fuck. I don't know what that was about. I never thought Sasha…"</p><p>Gerry just shrugged. "Learn all kinds of new things about people doing this. Including yourself."</p><p>"I guess." He rubbed his eyes. "Is it too early to start drinking?"</p><p>"Vodka's in the freezer if you want it."</p><p>Tim gave a short, bitter laugh, and wandered back out into the shop.</p><p>They did end up getting into the vodka, around nightfall, when Gerry found himself facing the prospect of going to sleep in an empty building for the first time since … well, first time in a while. He could call up his mum, but that was somehow even worse, falling back on a literal ghost for comfort.</p><p>"'S not like," Tim said blearily, a few shots in. "Like it matters. In the long run. Me and Sash, it was never gonna work out like that."</p><p>Gerry mustered enough brain cells for a polite, "Oh?"</p><p>"Yeah." Tim poured himself another. "Nah, I just wish … I thought we were friends. I thought we could stay friends, y'know?"</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"Eh?"</p><p>The bottom of a shot glass wasn't much more enlightening than the bottom of a mug. Cleaner, though, probably. "Never really had, y'know. Friends."</p><p>Tim scoffed, at first. It seemed to take a while for him to catch on that Gerry was serious. "You and Jon seem tight?"</p><p>"Mmmm." Gerry didn't want to worry too much about what lay between him and Jon at the moment. "Met through the work. Same thing with Gertrude. Hard to trust people who are too deeply interested in ancient fear gods, though. Like people way too interested in World War Two."</p><p>"Yeah." Tim knocked back his shot, and started immediately pouring another. "I'm not — you get I'm not, you know? Like that?"</p><p>Gerry rolled his eyes, though he was drunk enough to regret it. "Wouldn't have let you in if I thought you were."</p><p>"Right." Tim set the bottle down on the table with a clunk. "Gertude said … something about the circus. The Russian one. Said you might need help with it."</p><p>Gerry poured his own shot and downed it, because the last thing he wanted to think about right now was the fucking Unknowing. "The circus," he explained as the shot went down, "is fucked."</p><p>"Got that, I think."</p><p>"No. I meant…" He pressed his hands into the table top, to give himself something to focus on. "Even if I can find it. Figure it out. I don't know how to stop it. She wasn't sure it could <em>be </em>stopped. Just come back with another face. 'Swhat the Stranger's good at."</p><p>Tim's expression went sour. "So you can't — we can't hurt it?"</p><p>"We can try, but." Gerry shrugged.</p><p>Tim poured another shot for himself.</p><p>By midnight, Gerry had packed Tim into a cab to go be sick at his own house. (He texted Melanie ahead of time, to give her fair warning and to make sure Tim wasn't stranded outside in a maudlin mess.) He was on the upswing towards sobriety himself, and they were almost out of booze. Which meant he'd put off his last task long enough.</p><p>He went into Mary's room, where he'd put the book back in its place on the desk. Reading out her final moments was … not routine, exactly, but the horror had gone out of now that he'd done it enough times. Now it just made him tired.</p><p>"Oh," she said as she manifested. "I'm home. How delightful."</p><p>"Yeah," Gerry said. He looked down at the fragile parchment, the only physical link to his mum that was left. "Gertrude's dead."</p><p>Mary's mouth fell open, and her eyes grew large. She didn't need to breath, of course, but her voice managed to sound breathless when she said, "I see."</p><p>"Yeah." He dropped into the desk chair and buried his face in his hands. "I — I tried —"</p><p>"I'm sure," Mary said without guile. It was the closest to maternal affection she ever got, and Gerry was pathetically grateful for it. Back when he was still doing chemo, she would occasionally hold his hair back while he was sick, and it surprised him every time. He wondered if she’d still do it when he was only drunk.</p><p>There was the clipped <em>whoop</em> of a siren outside, which brought him back to the present. "The police are involved," he warned her. "They've got Jon, and … I don't know. Just make yourself scarce if they come back around, all right?"</p><p>"Oh, I have no intention of involving myself with the authorities." Mary perched on the corner of the desk, a cold, ominous presence that didn't quite block the light. "I don't suppose there's any sign of a successor, is there?"</p><p>"Christ, I don't know," Gerry groaned. "I thought that's what the Institute was for?"</p><p>Mary shrugged. "Maybe when Jonah Magnus still ran it? I was never sure whether it allowed him to actually choose the Archivist, or simply drew the Eye's chosen to him."</p><p>From what Martin had told them — wait, fuck, Martin. Gerry blearily checked his phone, but Martin hadn't tried to call all day. Hadn't come around, either, unless Tim had chased him off. Maybe he was still pissed at Gerry for betraying Jon. Gerry was certainly still pissed at himself. He sighed. "I don't think there's an archive there anymore. Certainly nobody with the title of Archivist. Maybe she'll be the last?"</p><p>Mary shook her head. "Oh no. The Beholding would never be robbed of its pupil so easily."</p><p>Right. That'd be too simple. "Then maybe the new Archivist will be a thousand miles away from here and we'll never have to care about it again."</p><p>"Hope springs eternal."</p><p>He snorted. "And here I thought you were hoping I'd take up the mantle. Carry on the legacy and shit."</p><p>She cocked her head. "You'd make a terrible Archivist, Gerard."</p><p>"Thanks," he told her, and even meant it. His back popped painlessly when he stood up. "I'm going to try to have a lie-down."</p><p>"I'll keep watch, as usual," she promised.</p><p>He shuffled up to his bedroom, and tried not to think about Jon's empty bed on the other side of the en-suite, or the police tape strapped over Gertrude's door. He fell onto his mattress, and didn't even dream.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin was waiting for Jon.</p><p>He had been waiting for a long time now. He didn't know how long. Light filtered in from outside, then it didn't. Light, and then not. There was light now, but that didn't mean anything, like his phone ringing hadn't meant anything. The only thing that mattered was Jon.</p><p>Somewhere in his flat, a door opened. That … might've meant something, except it wasn't the front door, he was looking at the front door and Jon wasn't there. Jon was supposed to be there. He had said he'd come home after talking to Sasha and Mary. Martin had been angry, at the time, and hurt, but the longer he'd waited the more the hurt had faded. Jon trusted him, after all. Jon had seemed about to kiss him, back at Pinhole, before everything went to hell, and Martin had wanted that, more than he'd wanted anything in a long time. Jon would come back to him, eventually, no matter what anyone tried to say to him. Jon would come back, and then Martin could make him safe.</p><p>"Martin?"</p><p><em>Jon. </em>Martin turned his head, dislodging the strands of cobweb that had accumulated in the curve of his shoulder. Jon was standing in front of a yellow door with a matte black handle, one that hadn't existed before now. That didn't mean anything to Martin. <em>Jon </em>was there now, staring wild-eyed around the flat, as if he'd never seen the place before. "You're home," Martin said, letting his relief spill out in a grin.</p><p>"Martin, what's — what happened?" Jon asked. He backed into the yellow door, but it didn't open for him. Good. "What's happened to you?"</p><p>"I've been waiting for you," Martin explained, standing. More cobwebs broke, and a few spiders lost their grip and tumbled from his clothes. "Are you okay?"</p><p>"I … really think I ought to be asking you that," Jon said. His voice was shaking, and his gaze darted around the room, at the cobwebs that veiled every surface, at all the busy little spiders.</p><p>Martin didn't think those particularly mattered, but if they bothered Jon, then he should do something. "Sorry about the mess," he said, brushing more cobwebs from his hair. "I've been … work's been busy. I'll tidy up a bit later."</p><p>Jon laughed. Martin liked Jon's laugh, a rare and brittle thing, even when it was weak and breathy as it was now. "I — I think I need to go."</p><p>Martin's heart sank. "But you only just got here," he protested.</p><p>"I'm — the police are looking for me," Jon said. "Will be, anyway. I don't — don't want to get you in trouble."</p><p>"I know a place we can hide," Martin assured him. "Have it all planned out already."</p><p>"You have?" Jon asked in a strangely low, flat tone.</p><p>"Sure." Martin reached out to take Jon's hand, but Jon leapt away and ended up backing into a web-shrouded bookshelf. "Gertrude's not going to hurt you, Jon. I won't let her."</p><p>"Gertrude's not the person I — argh!"</p><p>Jon jerked his hand away from the shelf; a spider went sailing off into some other part of the room. "Oh, did it bite you?" Martin asked, reaching out again. "I've got plasters in the kitchen—"</p><p>"Martin, don't... " Jon's hand was shaking, blood welling from the bite, and he grabbed the shelf with his other hand. "Dn… ahh…"</p><p>"Shh, give it here," Martin said. He took Jon's hand, and when Jon's knees gave way he caught him around the waist to keep him from collapsing to the floor entirely. "It's okay, I've got you. Let me just clean this up, and then we can go."</p><p>Jon's eyes were wide and pleading, but he didn't seem able to speak as Martin settled him on the ground.</p><p>"Back in a tick," Martin promised him, and went to get his first-aid kit. He would take care of Jon, fix him right up, and then everything would finally be all right.</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. A Win-Win Situation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Martin brings Jon to work. Sasha calls for help. Melanie aides a friend. </p><p>Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Spiders, Mind Control (The Web), References to Police Violence (Daisy Tonner)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The streets were twilit and sparsely populated, as Martin carried Jon out of his building. How long had Michael forced him to walk those corridors before dropping him into a trap? Was it early morning, or a strangely quiet evening? Either way, there were few people to notice when Martin bundled Jon into a waiting car — not a taxi, just an unmarked sedan. The driver didn't speak to them before driving off; Martin ignored the driver entirely, in favor of fussing over Jon, arranging him just so on the back seat, taking his glasses for safekeeping. Quietly reassuring him that they'd be safe where they were going, Jon, don't worry.</p><p>Jon couldn't respond, of course. He also couldn't stop frustrated tears from running down his cheeks to stain Martin's thigh.</p><p>By the time they arrived at the Institute, Jon could move his arms and legs somewhat, but he was weak as a kitten; Martin still had to carry him inside, through the silent, empty foyer and down the stairs to the basement. Jon had never spent much time in Artefact Storage, when he worked there — not academically rigorous enough, he'd told other people, but in truth the artefacts had scared him, with all that they implied. He didn't recognize the winding path they cut through the dimly lit shelves, the books and curios that they passed. He didn't know exactly where the door was, when Martin stopped in front of it, and knocked.</p><p>Over twenty years late, it was time to meet Mr. Spider.</p><p>The door swung open, and Martin carried Jon into a small room that seemed far more innocuous than the shadowy maze they'd just left. It was brightly lit by overhead fluorescents, and the four walls were lined with practical metal shelves, containing boxes of files. In the center was a low wooden table, engraved along its surface with meandering, looping lines that wove their way towards a square central hole. Martin deposited Jon on this table, achingly gentle, and then stepped back.</p><p>A pair of legs came into Jon's line of sight, brown tweed trousers and light-skinned hands with immaculate cuffs. Just poking out from under the right cuff was a bracelet of some kind, braided out of what looked like auburn hair. With effort, he was able to turn his head enough to look up at the man standing over him. "Hello, Archivist," Raymond Fielding said warmly. "Pleased to finally make your acquaintance."</p><p>Jon tried to speak, but his tongue was thick and disobedient in his mouth.</p><p>"Shh," Fielding said, brushing a lock of hair out of Jon's eyes. "Take your time. I'm sorry it had to come to this, but you're a <em>very </em>difficult man to pin down. Shame on you, keeping Martin waiting all this time."</p><p>If he focused, Jon thought he could make intelligible words. "Let him go."</p><p>Fielding blinked, and then laughed softly. "Who, Martin? Oh, I don't think so. He's been ever so informative these past few months, and simply <em>devoted </em>to you in a way that I couldn't possibly have manufactured. I shouldn't like to give up such a valuable tool so easily. Should I, Martin?"</p><p>"No, Mr. Fielding," Martin said, from somewhere behind him. Jon ground his teeth.</p><p>"There, now. He agrees." Fielding flashed a toothy grin. "Though I really do wish you would call me Ray."</p><p>"I know, Mr. Fielding."</p><p>Fielding tutted a bit, and turned his attention back to Jon. "Now. As you get your strength back, I imagine you'll be thinking about running or some other nonsense. Don't. I've put a great deal of work into salvaging this ritual, considering how much preparation Jonah utterly wasted, and I would hate for either you or Martin to get damaged right when we're on the cusp of completion."</p><p>Jon read the implied threat clearly. He'd resigned himself to dying on the way here:he should've died over a year ago, and everything since had been borrowed time. But he wasn't quite ready to sacrifice Martin just to muck up whatever ritual Fielding was trying to get off. "What do you want?" he managed to say, slurring his words.</p><p>"Oh, now, that won't do," Fielding said, frowning a bit. He stretched out his left hand, the one without the bracelet, and several bulbous black spiders dropped out his jacket sleeve onto the table. "A little pick-me-up seems to be in order here."</p><p>Jon couldn't move enough to recoil from the spiders as they charged over his body. He couldn't breathe deeply enough to scream, though when the first one bit him he yelped at the sharp, sudden pain. It came again, electric and penetrating: the spiders bit his face and hands, burrowed under his shirt to sink fangs into his back and stomach. Jon writhed, trying to shake them off, or crush them, or something, <em>anything </em>to stop the pain; the table creaked and squeaked, but the damage was already done.</p><p>The chills came first, or perhaps a fever — he broke out in a sweat at the same time he was racked by tiny, involuntary shivers. His heart, already pounding from fear, kicked into some higher gear, until he was certain it was going to burst. He gasped for air as feeling flooded into his shaking limbs again; he pushed himself upright, onto hands and knees, but Fielding's warning kept him from trying to clamber off the table entirely.</p><p>Fielding's hand floated into his field of vision, holding a folded piece of paper. "There we are. Now, if you could read this, please."</p><p>Jon took the sheet, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't make out the words unless he spread it flat against the surface of the table. He bent his head to read it, teardrops staining the page. "You who creep and hide and twist,'" he stammered. "'Weaver of webs, leader of dances. Mother of Puppets, who binds all those not yours by right and dares to call them children."</p><p>The words blurred on the page, though Jon couldn't have said he was crying in fear or pain or some base physical reaction to the venom. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he had to swallow it back to keep talking.</p><p>"Come to us in your wholeness. Come to us in your perfection."</p><p>His stomach twisted with nausea, but also a dread he couldn't put a name to. He tried to pause, to look away from the page for a moment to gather himself, but he couldn't tear his eyes away now. Couldn't stop the words from falling out of his mouth.</p><p>"Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and stares and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies!"</p><p>His eyes were watering so badly that he couldn't even see what was written — but he knew, somehow. He <strong>knew </strong>what he had to say, to finish the incantation, and he knew how he had to say it.</p><p>"Come to us.</p><p>
  <strong>"I open the door."</strong>
</p><p>Pain lanced through Jon's head, like an icepick through each eye; his arms stopped supporting him, and he collapsed back onto the table. To the extent he was able to think at all, a small part of him wondered if he was dying — an aneurysm, perhaps, or a stroke. An inescapable death that would finally put him beyond the reach of monsters.</p><p>He had, of course, no such luck.</p><p>He eventually heard Fielding snatch up the paper, though he didn't dare open his eyes. There was a long pause. Then, quietly: "What did you do?"</p><p>"Read it," Jon ground out.</p><p>Fielding slammed one hand into the table, inches from Jon's face, sending another bolt of pain through his skull. "What did you <em>do, </em>Archivist?"</p><p>"Not—" Jon had to swallow back more saliva; he was positively drooling. "Not an archivist."</p><p>"No," Fielding said quietly, seemingly to himself. "No, that was — we sent you to her months ago. We prepared you. She kept you, <em>trained </em>you. Who else would have succeeded her?"</p><p>Jon, of course, was in too much pain to think, much less parse out what the hell Fielding was talking about. Martin did not have any input, either.</p><p>"Keep him here," Fielding said crisply. "And keep him alive. Perhaps Gertrude isn't quite as dead as we were led to believe." He patted Jon's arm, invasive and strangely avuncular, and a moment later Jon heard the door open and shut again.</p>
<hr/><p>It took a long time for Sasha to fall asleep that night, and when she did finally drop into an exhausted doze, her dreams were haunted — by spiders, by spirals, by corridors that twisted up around until they spit her out on top of a massive tower, something like a lighthouse, except instead of the ocean she was surrounded on all sides by buildings — no, rooms — no, people —</p><p>She woke up cranky and headsore. A hot shower didn't help, and when she went to make herself a cup of coffee she realized she'd used up the last of the good grounds the day before, making coffee for herself and Jon and Tim. Shit. She did have an emergency can of instant, but she might as well walk down to the shops — or, she reconsidered as she rolled one foot, then the other, maybe take the bus.</p><p>But when she glanced out the window on her way down the stairs, she saw it. The oversized hands, the stretched limbs, the awful distortion. Standing at the flower shop, just like it had been the first day. Watching her.</p><p>All sense of caution flew from her mind, along with Melanie's warning. Maybe Michael <em>did </em>just want to mess with her head. No reason <em>she </em>couldn't mess with <em>it </em>right back.</p><p>This time, it didn't disappear; it waited, while she charged across the street at it. "What do you <em>want?" </em>she asked.</p><p>Michael laughed its terrible laugh. "Oh, my dear Sasha, what an <em>excellent </em>question! You've truly come a long way!"</p><p>"Don't be precious," she snapped. "I'm tired of your games."</p><p>"That's a pity," Michael said, "because I have one more game in mind."</p><p>Dread prickled low in Sasha's stomach. "What have you done?"</p><p>"I've merely kept up my end of a very complex agreement," Michael said, and as it spoke it walked, down the street, in the direction of Finsbury Park. Sasha had to jog to keep up with it, despite her aching legs and feet. "And now I'm keeping a much simpler one."</p><p>"Do I get to know what those agreements are?" she demanded.</p><p>"Of course not!"</p><p>Michael strode into the street, ignoring the absence of a proper crossing, ignoring traffic; cars honked and swerved and stopped short, but by some miracle (or its own strange magic) nothing hit it. Sasha, who had no superpowers to help her cross, darted after him as best she could while drivers rolled down their windows and swore at her. By the time she made it across, Michael was waiting by one of the park's gates. It wasn't a door, exactly, but she didn't think that mattered.</p><p>"Here is my proposal," it said while Sasha caught her breath. "I will help you stop the Mother of Puppets from completing her work. If you succeed, then I will have kept one promise today, and we'll all be quite satisfied."</p><p>"And if I fail?" Sasha asked warily.</p><p>Michael laughed. "Then I'll still have got my revenge, after a fashion. It's really a win-win situation."</p><p>"I don't think I like this proposal," Sasha said.</p><p>"Then it's fortunate I wasn't asking for your consent."</p><p>Michael stretched out its arms — such long arms, such large hands — and Sasha leapt to the side. One foot came down at an unexpected angle, and she tumbled helplessly to the ground—</p><p>— and found herself in total darkness, a stone floor biting into her hands and face.</p><p>She stayed frozen for a moment, but there was no sign of Michael following her. Thank god she'd kept hold of her purse; she was able to rummage around inside by feel, and locate the tiny LED flashlight she'd stowed in there months ago. The stone walls of the tunnels weren't exactly comforting, but they were at least familiar; one of her own crayon marks was visible just a few feet away. In fact, if memory served, she was very close to the trap door that led into the Archives.</p><p>She felt around for her phone, and squinted when the screen came to life. How on earth she had any signal down here was beyond her, but she'd worry about gift horses later. Right now, she needed to orientate herself — and perhaps more importantly, she needed help. Because she had no idea where to start, and if she was interpreting Michael correctly, the stakes were potentially fatal.</p><p>She scrolled through her contacts. Martin — she had to consider him compromised. Jon — in jail. Tim — she couldn't rely on him to take her call, not after the way she'd stormed off yesterday. Detective Tonner — not exactly her most trusted ally at the moment. Who else did that leave?</p><p>One person. Maybe.</p><p>She thumbed through her texts until she found the message from Melanie. She hadn't even bothered to save the number. <em>I'm at the Institute. I need help. Come in through the tunnels if you can.</em></p><p>Almost as soon as she sent the message, her one bar of signal flickered and vanished.</p><p>Right. Sasha tucked her phone back into her purse, and started heading for the Institute.</p>
<hr/><p>Basira was getting ready to leave for a patrol when one of the CID guys stopped her. "Hey, Hussain? You seen Tonner anywhere?"</p><p>"Not today," Basira admitted. "Problem?"</p><p>"Eh, just got the preliminary autopsy report back on the victim you two brought in yesterday." He handed her a packet of papers. "Don't know why they have to fax this stuff…"</p><p>Basira flipped quickly through the report. Daisy had been positive she shot Robinson at least once, and that could maybe make this an open-and-shut murder case — search the house, find no weapon, Sims and Keay could be cleared. No need to sign any more section 31 forms. Except the autopsy didn't <em>mention </em>any GSWs on the body. Weird bruising and a splintered clavicle, yeah, but no <em>holes. </em>And the rest of the findings...</p><p>
  <em>Pulmonary edema … myocarditis … lesion on neck 1.4mm in diameter with visible punctures … sent for testing … </em>
</p><p>There was a photo of a deep purple bruise with two red pinpricks in the center, right on the side of Robinson's neck. <em>Symptoms consistent with severe envenomation by spider or insect, </em>the report concluded, except Basira had never heard of a spider in England that could kill with one bite. So unless someone at that bookshop was keeping pet tarantulas…</p><p>"Weird one?" the detective asked warily, as if a Section 31 form was about to spontaneously manifest and attack him.</p><p>Basira sighed. "Yeah, weird one. I'll make sure Tonner gets this."</p><p>Before she called Daisy, though, she stopped by the custody suite. They weren't quite at the 24-hour mark, so Sims should still be around, and if he knew anything about spider bites it would save them a trip to Morden. When she asked for him, though, the custody sergeant on duty suddenly went squirrelly. "Jonathan Sims? You're sure he was booked in here?"</p><p>"I was the one who brought him in," Basira reminded her. "With Detective Tonner?"</p><p>"Oh, well, Tonner." She fiddled about with her computer a bit. "She, ah, she takes suspects out for special questioning, doesn't she?"</p><p>Basira's stomach sank. <em>Special questioning </em>was what you called it when someone (or some<em>thing) </em>wasn't coming back to the custody suite. "I wasn't aware that she'd come to see Sims."</p><p>The sergeant frowned at whatever was on her screen. "Says here the duty solicitor arrived to speak with him forty minutes after he was booked in, and the cell was empty."</p><p>"When did Tonner take him out for questioning?" Basira asked. Daisy had said she wanted to keep Sims for leverage — and she <em>wouldn't </em>have lied about that. Would she?</p><p>"I — I didn't see it myself," the sergeant said. "And the CCTV … well, it's an old system, and it doesn't always work properly."</p><p>Especially when someone was being taken for special questioning. <em>Damn it. </em></p><p>She found a quiet corner of the station to make the phone call. "Did you take Sims out of custody?" she asked, as soon as Daisy answered.</p><p><em>"Course not," </em>Daisy said.</p><p>"Well, he's not here now," Basira told her. "Custody sergeant says he was gone by the time his solicitor arrived yesterday morning."</p><p>Daisy swore on the other end of the line. <em>"Where's the other little freak? Keay?" </em></p><p>"I don't know," Basira said. "I can swing by the scene and check. Listen, there's something else you should know — toxicology's not back yet, but preliminary autopsy says Robinson died of a <em>spider bite." </em></p><p>There was a long pause on the other end of the line, so long Basira almost wondered if Daisy had hung up on her. Then: <em>"Get Keay. Find out what he knows. I'll start looking for Sims."</em></p><p>"You have any leads?"</p><p><em>"Magnus Institute," </em>she said, and then she really did hang up.</p>
<hr/><p>Waking up the next morning was a slow, painful process, even more so than Tim had become accustomed to as of late. He tried sitting up, gingerly and without opening his eyes, and something <em>swooped</em> in his head, spiraled down into his stomach and curdled there. Christ, that was right. He'd gotten back from drinking with Gerard, and decided a nightcap or three was a good idea. Which he might've gotten away with when he was twenty, but north of thirty it was possibly the stupidest thing he could've done.</p><p>He managed to only throw up a little bit, and in a dignified sort of way, between washing up and brushing his teeth, like it was simply a new step in his morning routine. Normally, after a night like this — and indeed a morning —Tim would drag his feet to work sometime around noon, if at all. Today, however, he was surprised to find himself dressing for the office once he'd surrendered the bathroom to Melanie. It wasn’t even something he thought about, really, he just <em>did</em> it, and left the house not ten minutes later on some kind of strange autopilot. He didn’t take the train to work, either, he took a <em>car,</em> a rideshare he didn’t fully remember ordering, but the driver rolled the window down and said his name, so he got in. It was probably an extravagant expense, but for some reason it was just really important that he get there on time today.</p><p>Tim dozed in the back of the sedan, not on purpose, but the hum of the car felt soothing, and his head was full of cobwebs. By the time they arrived, he was awake, much more alert, and he’d remembered why it was so urgent that he come in today: Tim had a meeting scheduled with the director. He hopped out of the sedan and waved a cheery thanks to the driver, making his way into the building; he was just on time. Taking the stairs to the director’s office, Tim strode down the hall, reached the brown door with the huge brass handle—</p><p>And then remembered to knock, of course.</p><p>“Hello, Tim,” the director said, opening the door wide, as if he’d been standing there waiting for the knock. How punctual of him. “Thank you so much for coming in. I have an important errand that needs to be run, and I believe you’re just the man for the job.”</p><p>Tim felt confused, dimly, because he thought Martin was the director’s errand boy these days— But he supposed Martin must be busy with something, and anyway, he was perfectly happy to help. “Sure thing, Boss,” he replied easily. “Whatever you say!”</p><p>"Excellent," said the director, and then told him what he needed to do.</p>
<hr/><p>Melanie read Sasha's text twice before she properly understood it; she tried texting back, and calling, but couldn't get through. Not like spooky underground tunnels usually had good reception, but fuck, didn't that stupid institute have wi-fi?</p><p>Fortunately, she wasn't a thousand miles away in Bromley when she got the message; she'd left around the same time Tim had, with vague ideas of going to visit Gerard at the shop (and perhaps asking again if he'd been serious about that job, because her bank account wasn't actually going to support a move). It wasn't too complicated to change her route to get to Chelsea, and if she stopped along the way to buy the biggest torch in the hardware store, she still got there quicker than if she'd left from Tim's.</p><p>Sasha's description of the first door she'd found into the tunnels had been vague, but Melanie had snuck a photo of her Pepe Silvia map while she was over there. Not a great photo, but enough to give her an idea of where to start looking for a suspicious door. She started from Vincent Square, and made her southeast, street by street—</p><p>--until she spotted Daisy Tonner taking a pair of bolt cutters to a door.</p><p>"Hey!" Melanie shouted, jogging up to her. "Oi! What are you doing?"</p><p>"Police business," Tonner said, without bothering to look up. The pad of the padlock fell to the ground, leaving just the clipped shackle behind.</p><p>"Is it related to Sasha?" Melanie asked. "Did she text you, too?"</p><p>That managed to catch Tonner's attention. "What about her?"</p><p>Melanie brought up the text to show her. "She sent me this. We spent yesterday talking about whatever this ritual at the Institute was that Gertrude was so gung-ho to stop…"</p><p>Tonner passed back her phone and tucked the bolt cutters into a long canvas bag at her feet. Melanie wasn't sure she wanted to know what else was hiding in there. "Sims disappeared from the custody suite yesterday," she said. "Think they're related?"</p><p>"Disappeared?" Melanie echoed. "Like, what, he escaped?"</p><p>"Maybe," Tonner said. "Or maybe he was taken. Either way, he's probably there." She nodded her head in the direction of the Institute.</p><p>"And you're sneaking in through the tunnels, why?" Melanie asked.</p><p>She bared her teeth. Probably technically it was a smile, but it sure didn't activate the same parts of Melanie's brain. "They're not going to see me coming."</p><p>"Cool," Melanie said, because she had to say something. "Looks like we're going the same direction, so…"</p><p>Daisy wrenched the door open, revealing the stone stairs into darkness. "Try to keep up." She took the steps two at a time, and left Melanie to scramble behind her.</p><p>If they'd been walking on the surface, it would've taken maybe ten minutes at the absolute maximum to get to the Institute; it was barely a quarter of a mile away in a straight line. The tunnels curved and jogged, however, and they kept having to stop to interpret Sasha's markers on the walls, or squint at Melanie's phone.</p><p>Still. It didn't actually take an hour to get to the Institute — Melanie's anxiety was just making it seem longer. By the time they found the stairs with the big white MI drawn on the side in crayon, she had halfway convinced herself that Sasha had already been eaten by spiders or something. Tonner stopped before going up the stairs, and pulled her gun out of her shoulder holster. "You think there's something up there?" Melanie asked.</p><p>"Course there's something up there," Tonner said. "Just don't know what."</p><p>She tested the door at the top of the stairs, then raised it just enough to look around. "What do you see?" Melanie demanded, barely remembering to whisper.</p><p>"Light," Tonner said.</p><p>Agonizingly slowly, Tonner crept up the stairs and through the door. She held it up for Melanie, although barely, forcing her to shimmy out on her belly. The floor she found herself on was dirty and streaked with soot; when she looked up, she saw the blackened skeletons of shelves all around her. And she felt — watched. Not hunted, exactly, but seen in a way that made her neck prickle unpleasantly. Observed. <em>Known. </em></p><p>Tonner let the trap door fall shut. She crept towards the light source at the other end of the room, as fluid and tense as a tiger in a nature documentary. She had her gun raised, and Melanie already knew she was willing to shoot first and ask questions later.</p><p>The light was a fallen torch, one of those tiny LED ones that could fit in your purse or pockets. Melanie aimed her own torch at it, and then swept it up, towards a figure with a familiar fall of long hair sat in the middle of the room. "Sasha!" she yelled, even though it made Tonner glare back at her.</p><p>Sasha turned around; her eyes were wide, almost awed. "Can you feel it?" she asked in a soft, wondering voice.</p><p>"Feel what?" Tonner asked.</p><p>"The Watcher." Sasha turned around again; she was sat in front of some boxes marked <em>document restoration services, </em>and had opened one to spread scorched fragments of paper all around her. "I think I get it now. Gertrude was marked by it, somehow. Claimed by it. That's why she didn't destroy this place completely. It didn't <em>want </em>her to."</p><p>Melanie glanced at Tonner, but Tonner had tilted her head to the side slightly in an expression of utter bafflement. All right. No help here. "You all right, Sasha?"</p><p>"I'm fine," she said, and when she looked at them again her gaze was clearer. "Good, even. I just got — distracted." She clambered to her feet, and brushed futilely at the black marks on her trousers. "But I think I know where we need to look for answers."</p><p>"What about Sims?" Tonner asked.</p><p>Sasha blinked. "What about — did something happen to Jon?"</p><p>"He went missing from jail," Melanie said. "Whatever's happening, I think it's happening soon."</p><p>"Jesus." Sasha took a deep breath. "Right. Well, whatever it is, I think it's happening in the Artefact Storage department. That's where Martin's been spending an awful lot of time, anyway, and there's no active staff since the fire. Perfect place to hide something."</p><p>"Aside from down here," Melanie muttered. Except—</p><p>"No," Sasha corrected. "This is the <em>worst </em>place to hide something. Sooner or later, it will always be seen."</p><p>A shiver went down Melanie's back at the certainty in her voice. Tonner didn't seem nearly so affected. "Right. Which way?"</p><p>
  <br/>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The Eye's Living Pupil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gerry rides to the rescue. Sasha reveals a secret. Everyone has a pretty bad day. </p><p>Chapter warnings: character death, knife violence, burning alive, mind control (the Web)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pinhole Books wasn't open when Basira arrived, which didn't exactly surprise her. Keay showed up with her first firm knock, looking haggard and hung-over. "What do you want now?" he growled.</p><p>"Your friend Sims went missing from the lockup," she said. "Has he turned up back here?"</p><p>"What do you mean, <em>missing?" </em>Keay snapped, face going stark white.</p><p>"If I knew that, I wouldn't be knocking doors looking for him," Basira hissed. "Can we talk about this inside?"</p><p>Keay was clearly torn between cooperating and telling her to fuck off, but his loyalty to Sims won out. He led her up to the shop, saying, "I suppose you'll want to search the premises?"</p><p>"That depends on whether you're the one who sprang him," Basira said. "But I don't think you're that stupid, or that spooky."</p><p>"I'm charmed." Keay was digging through his books, for some reason, scanning titles one after another. "Are you sure your friend Tonner didn't conveniently disappear him?"</p><p>"Yeah, I am," Basira said. "The custody sergeant said the CCTV glitched and he vanished. That could be an inside job, but it also sounds like the kind of weirdness you'd know better than me."</p><p>"Oh, I agree," Keay said, but before he could snark further, the bell downstairs rang again. He must not've locked the door behind her.</p><p>Stoker popped into the shop a moment later, with a sunny smile and a bounce in his step. It clashed incongruously with the bags under his bloodshot eyes and the growth of stubble on his jaw. "Hi guys!" he chirped. "How's it going?"</p><p>Basira glanced at Keay, who raised a single eyebrow. Yeah, he was seeing this. Not that a cheerful hangover was necessarily grounds on its own, but combined with all the other weirdness that was going on lately… "Great," Keay said flatly. "You know, considering all the death and police harassment."</p><p>Stoker at least cringed a bit. "Yeah, I thought I'd stop by and check on how you were doing. Anything I can do to help?"</p><p>"I dunno, <em>Constable</em>, is there anything he can do?" Keay said, turning back to his books.</p><p>"Yeah, actually," Basira said, racking her brain. "I understand Robinson was alive when you left the shop yesterday?"</p><p>"Sure was!" He leaned casually against a shelf. "She seemed to be doing well, too. Or at least, you know, well enough, considering…." He mimed a finger gun and made a small <em>pshoo </em>noise.</p><p>"And you left Keay here alone with her?"</p><p>"Melanie was here, too!" Stoker grinned. "Actually, she said something about coming by here herself — must've got sidetracked. I'm sure she'll turn up, though!"</p><p>Keay had ducked into a side room, and Basira didn't like being one on one with Stoker's strangely vacant smile. "So what time did you find out Robinson was dead?"</p><p>"Melanie called — let me check the exact time —"</p><p>Stoker pulled out his phone and started tapping at it. Behind him, Keay re-emerged with a very large, thick book, and Basira assumed he was going to club Stoker over the head with it. Instead, however, Keay opened the book, traced a passage with one finger—</p><p>—and Stoker collapsed to the ground like his strings had been cut. He clutched his head with a wordless cry of pain. "What the hell?" Basira blurted, briefly unsure which of them she should be focusing on.</p><p>Keay dropped to one knee and set the book aside, grabbing Stoker's shoulder with his other hand. "Hey. Hey. You're all right. I've got you."</p><p>Stoker took a deep, ragged breath, and looked up. His expression had shifted completely: he looked haunted, terrified. "What the fuck."</p><p>"That's what I'd like to know," Basira agreed.</p><p>"Somebody got inside your head," Keay explained. "Which is why you were acting like a fucking Stepford wife just now. I just happen to have the right Leitner to cancel it out."</p><p>Stoker swiped a hand over his face; it was shaking. "Fielding. The, the fucking director. Sasha was right about him."</p><p>"What about him?" Basira asked.</p><p>Keay sighed. "There's something at the Institute that's aligned with — bad guys. Spider-themed mind-control cult. Sasha thinks that's what Gertrude was investigating when your friend decided to murder her." He paused. "I know the name Fielding, though. Gertrude's mentioned him, but I don't remember anything specific."</p><p>That explained why Daisy had been so keen to get to the Institute, at least. "So this Fielding guy sent you over here?"</p><p>Tim nodded. "He — he told me — fuck, I can't think."</p><p>"Don't force it," Keay said. "Start with what you know."</p><p>Tim squeezed his eyes shut and took another deep breath. "I need to find Gertrude. She's here, somewhere. I need to find her and bring her back to the Institute."</p><p>Keay frowned. "Why would Fielding think she's still here?"</p><p>"Maybe he killed her to jumpstart whatever he's working on," Basira suggested. "Or — sent little spider minions to kill her. That's what the autopsy suggested."</p><p>Keay stood up quickly. "If the Web killed Gertrude, then he's probably got Jon. Fuck."</p><p>"I thought Jon was in jail," Stoker said weakly.</p><p>Keay started pacing about the room, while Basira briefly filled in Stoker. "The Web's been in the place since Elias died," Keay said, clearly in thinking-out-loud mode. "It saved Jon's life. Might've even arranged for him to find us, but then it just … left him. Didn't interfere with him until that lighter got delivered. That's when Gertrude went off on her own. But if it could kill her here — " He laughed bitterly. "If it could've gotten her here, any time, why would it wait until now to take her out? Was it just because the Archivist couldn't —?"</p><p>He froze in place. Basira knew Robinson had been the head archivist at the Institute, but somehow she didn't think that was what Keay was referring to; there was some kind of capital letter implied. "You going to share with the class?" she demanded.</p><p>"I think," he said slowly, "that Fielding meant for Jon to be Gertrude's — successor. In a spiritual sense, I mean. He needs the Archivist for his ritual, but she'd already proven she'd kill a building full of people rather than cooperate. So he let her groom Jon for it instead, without either of them even realizing it."</p><p>He suddenly turned on his heel and dashed off upstairs. Basira looked at Stoker. "You know what an 'Archivist' is?" she asked, using air quotes.</p><p>Stoker threw up his hands. "I just work there."</p><p>When Keay reappeared, he had on a long, flowing leather coat, and a bag over his shoulder. "Safe bet Fielding's got Jon, but if Jon's not the Archivist, then Fielding doesn't have any reason to <em>keep </em>him. I need to get to the Institute and get him out of there."</p><p>"Hold on a minute," Basira said, at the same time Stoker climbed weakly to his feet and said, "I'm coming, too."</p><p>"No," Keay said, holding out a hand. "I'm sorry, Tim, but you're a liability right now."</p><p>"He <em>used </em>me," Stoker snapped. "I want payback."</p><p>"I'm sorry," Keay said in a softer tone. "But Fielding's had over a year to get you under his thumb. Priming you, laying the groundwork. And the thing about the Web is that the more you fear being controlled? The easier it'll be to control you. You and Sasha and Martin, you're all vulnerable, and the last thing I want to do is throw you right back into his clutches."</p><p>"What about your book?" Basira asked. "That zonked him out pretty quickly."</p><p>"Yeah, Leitners aren't really suited to a combat situation," Keay said. "And that one's not a permanent fix, anyway. Just burned away the cobwebs for now."</p><p>Stoker stepped closer to Keay and grabbed his sleeve. "Look, I don't want him to get his hooks into me again, either," he said. "But he's waiting for me to come back, and if you go marching in without me? That's a big, suspicious red flag."</p><p>"He's right," Basira said. "Also, DS Tonner went straight to the Institute when I told her about the autopsy. We should call her and brief her, coordinate our responses."</p><p>Keay scowled at her, clearly not thrilled at the idea of collaboration, but ultimately sighed. "Fine. But let's do it in the car. That eight-legged fuck already killed Gertrude, I'm not—" His voice caught, and he looked away from them.</p><p>"I've actually got an idea," Stoker said, and started grabbing books off the shelves in piles.</p><p>Keay rolled his eyes again. "I thought I <em>just </em>made it clear that books aren’t—"</p><p>“They aren’t for when we’re inside,” Stoker insisted, staggering back over to them. “They’re gonna get us in. Here, take a few off the top, would you—?”</p><p>Raising an eyebrow, Keay took a couple off the stack. “What, are we going to hold them up in front of our faces as we go in, or—”</p><p>“Trust me,” Stoker said, and then rolled his eyes at the looks on both their faces. “Yeah, fine, I know I was just beanfreaked into oblivion twenty minutes ago, but it’s a <em>good idea</em>, okay?”</p><p>“Is it going to work?” Basira demanded.</p><p>“From what Gerard Way over here is saying, the whole place is on lockdown via sustained broad-scale mind control, so like.” Stoker shrugged, and his armful of books wobbled. “It had better.”</p><p>“I thought your name was Keay,” Basira muttered to him as they headed down the stairs to her patrol car.</p><p>Keay shut his eyes briefly. “It’s— Don’t worry about it.”</p>
<hr/><p>A little over twenty minutes later, Gerry was the one sweating and puffing under the weight of the fifteen bloody books Tim had brought, and PC Hussain had a foreboding hand on his shoulder as she marched him in the front entrance of the Institute. Tim held the door for them, and then put on an uncanny approximation of the smile he had worn when he showed up at the bookshop. “Good morning, Rosie,” he crooned, leading them over to the reception desk at a stroll. “I have excellent news!”</p><p>The receptionist, Rosie, a soft-looking woman who wore her glasses on a chain despite only looking in her forties, sat up and smiled. “Good morning, Tim; what’s all this fuss, then?”</p><p>“I’ve managed to track down our book thief,” Tim said, gesturing to Gerry and the constable with a little flourish.</p><p>“I never <em>stole</em> anything,” Gerry grunted, attempting to play the part. “It’s a library, it’s public property, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Regardless, you’re <em>returning</em> them now, aren’t you,” PC Hussain said loudly over his shoulder. “<em>All</em> of them.” She gave him a light shove to punctuate, and his tower of books wobbled.</p><p>“Yeah, I am,” he grumbled. It was strange, with all the tension, everything that was riding on this performance, he felt strangely transported back to his teenage years, where this experience hadn’t been entirely uncommon.</p><p>“Well, that <em>is</em> good news,” Rosie agreed, just a little too slowly to be natural. Gerry could practically see the cobwebs on her, and he felt bad in a distant way; she seemed quite pleasant, otherwise. Tim continued chatting with her naturally for a minute or so, as Gerry grew tense with impatience and PC Hussain’s grip on his shoulder tightened. She was just starting to nudge him towards the stairwell, where a directory pointed them ominously to <em>RECORDS AND STORAGE,</em> when Tim said loudly, “<em>This</em> way to the library now, come on! Let’s get these back on the shelves…!”</p><p>They hustled off after him down the opposite hall. As soon as they were reasonably out of earshot, Gerry dumped his armful of books unceremoniously on the floor. “Right. Now what?” He turned to PC Hussain. “Where’s your detective gone?”</p><p>“Daisy said they were waiting in the Archives,” she said, glancing around warily at the way her voice echoed in the empty hall. “We need to get there quickly; we’re exposed up here.”</p><p>“This way.” Tim waved them around a corner. “There’s a fire exit stairwell at the back. We’ll come out the other end of the basement.”</p><p>They followed him, highly aware of the noise their footsteps made on the polished, vacant floor. Tim led them past the library, ushered them through some kind of copy room, and just when Gerry was tense enough to start wondering if he’d been compromised again, they arrived at a plain, heavy metal door installed in one corner of the hallway. Tim hauled it open, and Gerry went ahead of Hussain, despite her clear objections. It was all he could do to keep from calling out for Jon, to just storm in and drag him out of there, get him out of London, maybe hightail it to the bloody continent just to buy them some breathing room. But there were a thousand reasons why that was a stupid plan, chief among them the soft, distant <em>ding</em> of the elevator doors, which sounded moments after Gerry stepped out of the stairwell and into the basement.</p><p>Hussain threw an arm out and plastered them both against the wall. They couldn’t see the elevator, but the noise had sounded down the length of a long grey corridor, dotted with wire-crossed windows that all had their shades down. There were only four doors, one of which Gerry and his companions had just stepped out of.</p><p>There was a quiet rumble as the elevator doors opened around some invisible corner. “Someone’s coming,” Tim hissed behind them, unnecessarily.</p><p>“Which one is the Archives?” Hussain jerked her head down the hall.</p><p>“This one,” Gerry said, and broke away from the wall towards the door on the right. It may have been over a year since he’d last set foot down here, but he couldn’t forget the old haunt if he tried. They followed him, because the only other choice was to duck back into the fire escape, and the three of them crammed through the opening all at once, into a dim, ashy room. Gerry spun around as soon as they were all through and eased the door shut, holding the latch so that it didn’t make a sound when he slid it back into place.</p><p>There was a different click, though, behind him, and then Tim saying, “<em>Fucking</em> hell,” a little too loudly for comfort. He decided to turn towards the sound very slowly, already suspicious of what it might be, and Hussain confirmed it for him before he made it 180 degrees. “Stand down, Daisy, it’s me. I had to bring backup to get inside fast.”</p><p>Detective Tonner disarmed her pistol with a second click, and Gerry bit his lip <em>hard</em> to keep himself from saying anything unwise.</p><p>Sasha and Melanie popped out from behind a shelf; they were both a bit soot-smeared, but appeared otherwise unharmed. "I've been searching for anything that might help us," Sasha said. "Fielding's got the damaged statements stored down here, but I think he's hidden the whole ones in Artefact Storage."</p><p>"I tried calling Martin on the way over," Tim said. "No answer."</p><p>"I think we have to assume Martin's as compromised as the rest of them," Gerry said. "Maybe worse. And that still includes you, Tim."</p><p>"What about Sasha?" Tim asked, mulishly.</p><p>"What about me?" she echoed.</p><p>Hussain sighed. "If this spider cult is mind-controlling everyone who works here, and you work here…"</p><p>Sasha cocked her head to the side. "I haven't — I realize this doesn't actually sound good, but I haven't been coming in much in the past month or so. Does that make any difference?"</p><p>They were all looking at Gerry, and of course he wanted to say <em>no — </em>better safe than sorry. But Sasha seemed to be the second-best informed of the group, as well as stubborn enough to refuse all reasonable precautions if they pissed her off enough. So instead, he asked in a low voice, "Both of you — who's running this place?"</p><p>"The director," Tim said, at the same moment Sasha answered, "Raymond Fielding."</p><p>Tim flinched. "I — yeah. I knew that. I think."</p><p>Gerry shrugged. "Okay. So you're slightly less mindfucked than the rest of them. We should still take precautions."</p><p>"Like what?" Tonner asked.</p><p>Sasha immediately answered with, "Clear the building. If anything goes wrong, I <em>don't </em>want anyone else to get hurt."</p><p>"Or used as a hostage by Fielding, or as a meat shield" Gerry added, when Tonner seemed skeptical. "Pulling the fire alarms or something will probably work."</p><p>"But that'll just attract the fire brigade," Hussain pointed out. "Isn't that more targets for him?"</p><p>Gerry shook his head. "He's not Professor X, okay? Even the most powerful Web avatars can't go zero to mind control on a whole mob of people. It takes time, it takes the right symbols, the right, I dunno, <em>vibe." </em></p><p>"The vibe," Hussain echoed, voice dripping with skepticism.</p><p>"There's not an accepted technical term," Gerry growled.</p><p>Sasha piped up again. "So if there's a big enough crowd, doesn't that work against him? Maybe the fire brigade is exactly what we want."</p><p>"We could call it in as well," Tonner added. "Let dispatch know it's a weird one."</p><p>"We don't want to give Fielding too much warning, though, if he's got hostages," Melanie pointed out.</p><p>Tim held up his phone. "I'll station myself by the alarm. You can send a text when you're about to go in … wherever 'in' is."</p><p>Gerry nodded. "We also should split up. Less of a chance for Fielding to take us all out at once that way."</p><p>"I'm going in first," Tonner said immediately.</p><p>"You are the <em>least safe person </em>to send in first," Gerry pointed out.</p><p>Tonner stepped forward, about to get into his face, but Hussain put a hand on her arm and paused her. "Artefact Storage is a big place," Sasha cut in. "Probably includes a bigger part of the building's footprint than the archives do. We might as well split up for the initial search."</p><p>"Fine," Tonner said. "But if we split up, how do we know you're not under his control next time we see you?"</p><p>"Based on this one?" Gerry nodded at Tim. "It was pretty fuckin' obvious. I'm guessing, out of <em>quick, subtle </em>and <em>total</em> control, Fielding gets to pick two<em>."</em></p><p>For a moment they all looked at one another, but there seemed to be nothing else to add. Melanie held up her keys, which had one of those safety whistles dangling from the ring. "I can stand watch at the door. Give you a bit of a warning if anyone comes in."</p><p>"There more than one entrance to this place?" Daisy asked.</p><p>Everyone shook their heads.</p><p>She holstered her gun, tugging her jacket down to mask the bulge one again. "All right then. Let's do this.”</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha had hated her time in Artefact Storage. Not necessarily the artefacts themselves, even the ones that had well-documented darker properties. She'd hated subjecting herself to the experiences — sleep in the rusted chair, write your name in the memory book — and feeling like her fear was just another data point, just one more trial in a pointless experiment with no real hypothesis or controls. If she'd known about Smirke's system at the time, about the ways in which these things could be organized and understood — well, she'd probably still have resented it a little, how carelessly Sonia and the rest had toyed with the lower-ranking staff members' lives and safety. She'd probably have realized that their experiments had less to do with understanding the artefacts and more with feeding the Eye.</p><p>Sonia was dead now, of course, and nobody had worked in Artefact Storage in months. The maze of shelves was undisturbed from the last time she'd been forced to stop by. There wasn't even any dust (except around the Dusty Chalice, which, well, it was right there on the label). It was no better organized than it had been, though in hindsight part of Sasha wondered if there was a method to it, keeping artefacts from some powers aware from those touched by others….</p><p>"Where do we start?" Tonner asked, when they'd posted Melanie at the door and coordinated mobile numbers.</p><p>Sasha had some ideas about that, actually. "The main testing area is that way," she said, pointing to the right. "It's got the most room, and it's definitely not been in active use since the fire."</p><p>Tonner nodded sharply, and clicked on her torch. "Shout if you find anything." She stalked off, Hussain falling smoothly into step behind her.</p><p>Sasha headed to the left, instead, around one of the load-bearing columns and into the thickets of the shelves. Gerard kept pace with her, and didn't say anything until they were well out of sight of the others. "You seem to have the lay of the place down."</p><p>"Mmm-hmm." Sasha ducked around a grime-encrusted wheelbarrow that was chained to the wall. "I used to work down here, once. You ever been in here before?"</p><p>"Gertrude pretty much stuck to the archives, while she was working." He paused significantly. "You know exactly where you're going, don't you?"</p><p>Sasha lowered her torch until it illuminated the floor tiles: there were footprints, faint ones, some limned in pale dust and some in soot. "Martin caught me in the archives a while back, and came straight here afterwards," she said. "The cleaners aren't allowed, which means if he went to Fielding's hiding place…"</p><p>"Very nice," Gerard said, and it didn't even sound grudging. "You planning to tell that to Officer Friendly back there?"</p><p>"I'm not interested in anyone else getting shot," Sasha said firmly.</p><p>The footprints, faint though they were, led them to a room in the corner that hadn't been there before — at least, not when Sasha was on staff. Shelves had clearly been rearranged to accommodate it, by the marks on the floor, and the two walls that projected outward into the rest of the space were covered in unfinished plasterboard. There was a strip of light visible under the door, but no sound that Sasha could hear. She made eye contact with Gerry, and he nodded, taking out his phone.</p><p>The fire alarms were audible from here, but distant. Fielding must've had the ones down here disconnected at some point. "Let's go," Gerard said, and pulled the door open.</p><p>The room wasn't what Sasha had expected: brightly lit, clean angles, tidy shelves. There were cobwebs around the ceiling, sure, but no more than she was used to seeing around the Institute. Though, in hindsight, that probably wasn't the best basis for comparison.</p><p>There was a carved wooden table in the center of the room, knee-high, like a coffee table. Jon was curled up on his side on top of it. He looked awful: his skin was ashen and clammy, except where it was swollen and reddish-purple from spider bites. He was visibly shivering, and his face was streaked with tears and drool. He didn't appear to be conscious. Martin knelt next to him, blank-eyed and dreamy; he was rather absently petting Jon's hair.</p><p>Standing over the both of them was a man in a brown suit, a man Sasha recognized on sight even though she couldn't remember having ever met him before today. "Mr. Fielding," she said, as Gerard squeezed into the small room behind her.</p><p>"Please," he said with a warm smile. "Call me Ray."</p><p>And now that she was paying attention, she could <em>feel </em>it — the silken threads in her head, the urge to answer, to <em>obey. </em>It felt a lot like when Jon had asked her questions, though somehow both stronger and more subtle. She clenched her jaw against it, and could see in Fielding's eyes the satisfaction it gave him to watch her resist. <em>Bastard. </em></p><p>Gerard's jaw clenched, too, when he saw Jon's condition, and his voice was tight when he spoke. "Let them go."</p><p>"I don't think I will, actually," Fielding replied.</p><p>Gerard tensed, but before he could even start to step forward, Martin's other hand emerged from under the table. He had a long, serrated knife, something with a hooked tip and a carbon-black blade, which he carefully notched under Jon's chin. His other hand didn't stop petting Jon's hair, and the expression on his face didn't change.</p><p>"There, now," Fielding said reproachfully. "Let's not be <em>hasty. </em>I think there's another way we can resolve all this without resorting to violence."</p><p>"How?" Sasha asked. Gerard's eyes never left the knife.</p><p>Fielding folded his hands in front of him; Sasha caught a glimpse of some kind of strange red bracelet on his right wrist, but it vanished into his cuff too quickly for her to catch any details. "I'm sure you've worked out that the Archivist is necessary for our plans to come to fruition. I had hoped to leave most of the heavy lifting to my predecessor, but Miss Robinson proved to be <em>extremely </em>unamenable towards cooperating. So I had to take a more direct approach."</p><p>"You sent him to us," Gerard growled. "You <em>groomed </em>him."</p><p>"We merely ensured he was in the right places at the right times," Fielding said. "And offered a small measure of protection to ensure he survived it. His choices — all your choices — were entirely your own."</p><p>"I don't understand," Sasha interjected, although a part of her strongly suspected she actually did. "What do you mean by <em>Archivist?"</em></p><p>"The Archivist is a very old role," Fielding said. "Nothing less than the Eye's living pupil. A powerful avatar, though not an immortal one. And there must always be an Archivist."</p><p>"Gertrude was the last one," Gerard added. "She told me once that this whole institute is just a machine to make Archivists, to guide the Eye's claim."</p><p>"Indeed," Fielding said. "Unfortunately — for her, at least — she weakened herself badly when she chose to burn the seat of her own power. Oh, she survived it, but she must've known she was operating on borrowed time. Which is why we sent our perfect offering, our Jonathan, to serve as her apprentice."</p><p>Gerard shook his head. "He's not — she didn't want another Archivist, you tit. She wanted this whole place to burn."</p><p>Fielding inclined his head. "If that were true, Mr. Keay, she would've blown it all up when she had the chance. But she didn't, did she? Something held her back, and it certainly wasn't a concern for human life. I like to think she did serve her patron, in her own way, to the very end."</p><p>The room was small enough that they could just grab Jon and drag him away — if not for Fielding, and the knife in Martin's hand. Martin would have to be disarmed before they could get Jon, or better yet, they needed him to break the Web's control — but what could do that? Some kind of shock? "What do you need the Archivist for, anyway?" Sasha asked, in a bid for more time. "If your ritual is to bring the Web through into the world…?"</p><p>Fielding laughed. "Very astute, Miss James! But you misunderstand. Everyone has misunderstood, all the way back to Robert Smirke himself. The <em>fourteen Dread Powers</em> are no more a fact about our world than a box of crayons. As light refracts, so does fear when filtered through the living world — but one cannot bring the Mother of Puppets into the world without her other children, any more than one can excise a single color from the spectrum and expect to see clearly."</p><p>Arguing about the problem with that metaphor would probably be a great distraction, but Sasha was more concerned by the underlying message. "So — so, what, if you can't bring one of them at a time…?"</p><p>"He wants to bring them all." Gerard looked a bit ill. "One big happy family."</p><p>"So to speak," Fielding said smugly. "And who better to call on all the powers at once than an Archivist — an Archive, actually, who has experienced them all, and lived to tell the tale? Jon would've been the perfect instrument for our ascension, too, balanced between the Eye and the Mother as he is. But clearly, the mantle passed to another."</p><p>He was staring straight at Gerard when he said it, as if he needed to be any more obvious. And it <em>was </em>obvious, Sasha supposed — Gerard had worked with Gertrude longer, had faced as many monsters as Jon had — "Are <em>you </em>the Archivist?" she blurted, without thinking,</p><p>Gerard went stiff as a board. And then, instead of answering, he grabbed one of the shelves and wrenched it off the wall.</p>
<hr/><p>Gerry's brain hadn't quite been firing on all cylinders since he'd had the tumor out, but even though the disgust and horror of Fielding's story, he could appreciate a couple of things.</p><p>First, this room was an archive — maybe even an Archive, a proper one, reconstituted by Fielding from the literal ashes of the old one. So the Institute was still a place of power for the Eye, despite everything Gertrude had done. A damaged one, sure, and overrun by spiders, but a powerful place still. It always had been.</p><p>Second, as long as the Institute still functioned as a temple of Beholding, the new Archivist was always going to come from within. The administrative title of <em>head archivist </em>was a formality, a proxy, and the fact that Fielding hadn't appointed anyone to the job meant nothing in the long run. The Eye claimed who it wanted, and no one, not even the Mother of Puppets, could redirect that.</p><p>Third, Sasha had just asked him a question. But not <em>just </em>asked. That was a compulsion, the kind he'd seen Gertrude whip out when she was sufficiently pissed off. Not as strong as Gertrude's, of course, not the kind that pulled out secrets like teeth, but still.</p><p>Fourth, <em>fuck. </em></p><p>Maybe he could've persuaded Fielding to take him in Jon's place, but there was no guarantee he'd be able to stall long enough for Sasha and Jon to get safely away. And the answer currently clawing at his throat would make that a pretty hard sell, anyway. That left one option, a last resort — the cheap-ass wire shelves that lined the room weren't anchored onto anything, and the snug little boxes of files made them top heavy. It wasn't a particularly good distraction, but it would have to do.</p><p>He grabbed the one directly behind him, and lunged forward with all his body weight. Once it was tilted sufficiently, gravity took over, and a load of boxes tumbled free — onto him, onto Jon and Martin, onto Fielding. Some of them fell open, releasing a blizzard of loose paper. Someone shrieked in surprise, and the best Gerry could do as he squirmed free was pray that Martin hadn't just cut Jon's throat.</p><p>He straightened up and found that no, Martin had not. Martin, in fact, was standing now, and had Fielding pinned against the opposed wall. The knife he'd previously had on Jon was now pressed into Fielding's throat, and Martin's face was an unfamiliar mask of desperation. "Let them go," he choked out.</p><p>Fielding grinned at him. "Now, Martin, there's no no need for dramatics—"</p><p>Martin flinched his entire body, and pressed the blade higher. "Let them go!"</p><p>Gerry glanced at Sasha; she'd recovered from the surprise as well, and was already dragging Jon out from under the fallen shelf. They could probably do a runner while Martin had Fielding distracted, but Gerry doubted this brief moment of clarity was going to last long, and once it faded, Martin would absolutely suffer the consequences. So Gerry reached into his bag and grabbed the first thing his hand settled on — a can of bug spray, left over from their pre-Prentiss stockpile. "You've lost, Ray," he called, trying to keep his attention split. "And no one likes a sore loser."</p><p>Fieldling turned to him and actually tutted, despite the knife in his neck. "You really think that's going to be of any use?"</p><p>With his other hand, Gerry raised his lighter. "I think Gertrude knew what she was doing when she decided on fire," he said, flicking it open. "And if we have to burn this whole fucking building down to get rid of you, I think that's a fair trade."</p><p>Fielding tilted his head. "Oh, Gerard, now <em>that </em>was a mistake."</p><p>Gerry dropped the lighter. It wasn't a choice on his part, wasn't even a reflex — his hand opened, without any conscious input from him, and let the burning lighter fall to the ground. The Web motif etched into the side stared up at him, as if to mock him.</p><p>In the same moment, Martin whimpered and twitched; the hand holding the knife pulled back, but his other hand stayed wrapped in Fielding's sleeve, and Fielding himself was gripping it, holding it in place. For a horrifying moment, it looked like Martin was going to slice his own hand off, or at least try to, and there was no way for Gerry to get to him in time to help.</p><p>But Martin screwed his eyes shut, and shouted <em>"No!" </em>as if the word was being torn out of the core of his being. The knife, instead of slicing into his own wrist, cut into Fielding's — not deeply, not forcefully, but better a glancing blow on an enemy than a fatal wound on a friend. There wasn't any blood from the wound, which Gerry honestly kind of expected based on previous dealings with Web creatures.</p><p>Except Fielding started to scream anyway.</p><p>He screamed, and Martin threw himself backwards, apparently in full control of himself again. Fielding screamed, and smoke began to pour out of his right sleeve. He fell to the ground, screaming, as his whole hand burst into flame, blackening and twisting as flesh sloughed off the bone. The fire spread rapidly across his clothes, too rapidly, and Gerry watched in fascinated horror as his skin blistered and flaked away. The screaming only stopped when there wasn't enough flesh on him left to pump air.</p><p>It took minutes, and then Fielding was dead.</p><p>What the <em>fuck?</em></p><p>"What the fuck is that?" Tonner had appeared at his side; she had her gun out, but lowered, given there was nothing to do now but watch the fire consume Fielding's bones like wood. Astonishingly, most of the paper and cardboard around him was unharmed.</p><p>Gerry glanced through the open door behind him, and saw Sasha and Hussain doing first aid on Jon. Inside the ersatz Archive, there was no sound but the crackling fire, and Martin quietly crying. He cautiously skirted around the burning bones to crouch next to Martin. "Hey. Are you hurt?"</p><p>Martin shook his head, but speaking seemed to be beyond him.</p><p>"C'mon, let's get out of here." Gerry tried to coax Martin into standing, and as he did so he accidentally kicked something — the knife. It was laying on the floor, and caught in its serrations was the bracelet Fielding had been wearing. Up close, the frayed fibers looked a lot like human hair.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Martin whimpered. "I didn't — I didn't want to —"</p><p>"I know," Gerry said. "And I promise, Jon knows, too."</p><p>He finally urged Martin into standing, and led him out of the room, just as a team of paramedics came rattling through the shelves.</p><p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. It's the Thought That Counts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Everyone tries to recover. Jon and Gerry plan a funeral.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of the perks of the A&amp;E waiting room was that you couldn’t really tell what time it was; the place was always brightly lit, and there were always occupants hanging around in various states of dress, from formal wear to striped pyjamas.</p><p>Sasha could've checked her phone to see how long they'd been waiting, but if she let herself know that, then she'd have to start worrying about how long Martin and Jon had been back there: how feverish Jon had been, his thready pulse and the ugly, bruise-colored lesions left by the spider bites. She'd found one of the actual spiders, dead but caught in his clothes, and passed it along to the paramedics, but even if they were able to identify the species, she knew there was no guarantee they'd have the antivenin on hand, or that it would even work for a spider with some sort of supernatural origins—</p><p>So she didn't look. She just waited.</p><p>"Could you stop that?" Gerard asked softly.</p><p>Sasha realized she'd been absently drumming her fingers against the plastic armrest of her chair. "Sorry," she murmured, and grabbed her purse with both hands to keep them still.</p><p>"'Salright," he said. He had ridden in the ambulance with Jon, telling the paramedics they were flatmates; Sasha had ridden over with Martin, just so he wouldn't have to be alone, but then he'd been whisked away behind closed doors anyway, leaving her with Gerard. Who, she supposed, probably also shouldn't be alone, even if she might not be his favorite person at the moment.</p><p>He got up and dithered at one of the vending machines for a bit; Sasha rooted through her purse for a distraction, but she hadn't brought much more than her phone and her wallet. She'd just been planning on running down to the shops. Jesus. There wasn't anything better to occupy her thoughts, so when Gerard came back to his seat with a bottle of Coke, she asked tentatively, "Can I—?"</p><p>"Yes, please, god," he said before she'd even finished the question. "Give me something else to think about, here."</p><p>Right. Okay. She glanced around the waiting room, but it was only about half-full, and nobody was paying them any particular attention. "Who is the Archivist?" she asked.</p><p>"You are," Gerard said, and then winced. "And that's gonna be a problem."</p><p>The entire second half of his statement was lost on her, though. It wasn't what she'd expected him to say. It didn't make <em>sense.</em> "I - no. No, I can't be, I —"</p><p>He sighed. "You're curious. You're fucking obsessive. You want to know the truth, no matter how much it scares you, no matter who it hurts. Sound familiar?"</p><p>"No," she said, but it wasn't even a contradiction. It was a denial of the whole situation, the whole — "How could it? How could I … I didn't want to …"</p><p>"You think Jane Prentiss wanted to be a shambling worm hive?" Gerard said, though his tone wasn't unkind. "You think anybody wakes up in the morning and decides to pledge themselves to an eldritch abomination? Well, my mum, maybe. But otherwise … they come to us. The Eye picked Gertrude, and then when she gave it the finger, it changed its mind and picked you."</p><p>She frantically reviewed the past year, trying to think of a tipping point, a turning point … and her mind kept coming back to Martin's anger, Tim's frustration. <em>No matter who it hurts. </em>"What does that mean?" she asked, sickened.</p><p>"It means you have to be careful asking questions, 'cause people won't have a choice about answering you," he said. "First of all."</p><p>"Oh." She cringed, as much for the question itself as the almost reflexive curiosity that bubbled up in her chest — <em>I can make people answer me? How is that different from Jon's compulsion power? What can I make them say? </em>She should be more horrified, at powers originating from a god of terror. She shouldn't be <em>excited. </em>(And yet…)</p><p>"Second," Gerard continued. "It mostly means what you want it to mean, I think? Gertrude made a thing out of not using the powers, if she could help it. Of choosing humanity."</p><p>Sasha hadn't realized that was an option. That avatars still got to make choices. Then again, if her examples were Gertrude or Jane Prentiss … she took a deep breath. "I think I'm going to need help with that," she said.</p><p>Gerard shrugged. "My door's always open. So long as you don't call the fucking cops again."</p><p>"Maybe don't kill a hundred people," she retorted.</p><p>He dropped his head. "Not planning on it."</p><p>A nurse in scrubs emerged from behind the double doors of the waiting room. "Sasha James?"</p><p>"That's me." Sasha leapt to her feet, and tried to drag her focus back — Martin. She'd come in with Martin. "Is he — I mean — my friend —"</p><p>"He's looking good," the nurse assured her. "We had to give him something to calm him down, and he was quite badly dehydrated, but he's resting now and receiving intravenous fluids. I'll let you know when we're ready to release him."</p><p>She nodded. The thought of Fielding holding Martin in his grip, like a tool, not even allowing him to eat or drink — she wasn't sure whether she felt more anger or horror. Poor Martin. "Thank you. Can I — I 'd like to see him."</p><p>"I'll see if he's awake."</p><p>The nurse disappeared back through the double doors. No word about Jon, then.</p><p>Sasha remembered to sit down, and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. "Trying to check up on what he knows?" Gerard asked.</p><p>"Maybe," Sasha said. "But ... I also think I owe him an apology."</p><p>He just nodded. "Start as you mean to go on."</p>
<hr/><p>Martin clenched his fist, and then relaxed it. Clench, relax. Clench — and then hold it, as long as he wanted, because it was what he wanted, until the pressure of his nails digging into his palm became uncomfortable. Relax. Because he wanted to do it.</p><p>Didn't he?</p><p>The diazepam they'd given him had made the world foggy around the edges, though not quite the same way as Ray's cobwebs. It made the fear distant, like the sound of a highway when you were just out of sight of it, as opposed to standing in the central reservation. Ray hadn't let him feel fear at all; had tangled him up in so much silk and misdirection that he hadn't felt anything, even while holding a fucking knife to Jon's throat. The diazepam let him stay on the bed while saline drained into his IV line, watching his hands move and telling himself it was because he was moving them. He'd thought he was in control then, too, when he was just dancing to Ray's tune, an autonomous extension of his will. It hadn't felt like manipulation until suddenly it did.</p><p>Ray was dead now, though. Burned to ashes. Martin had watched it happen. And yet.</p><p>A nurse came round to check his vitals again. Blood pressure always a little north of ideal, pulse normal, oxygen normal. He did know where he was, and who was the prime minister, and he'd worked out the date by now even if he was a bit iffy on how he'd got here. So much of the past two days felt like a dream. Or a nightmare.</p><p>But Ray was dead now, and Martin was safe. Right?</p><p>"You're looking much better," the nurse said. "Think you could eat something for us?"</p><p>"Sure," Martin said. He <em>was </em>hungry, but it was the kind of gnawing ache that threatened to tip over into nausea at any moment.</p><p>The nurse patted his leg and beamed at him. "I'll have something brought up from the canteen."</p><p>"Wait," Martin said; he had the thought and his mouth moved and his lungs contracted and the word was out. The nurse blinked at him, and he realized he had to keep talking. "I, er. The man I came with — came in at the same time as me, I mean. How is he?"</p><p>"I'll have to ask someone for you," the nurse said.</p><p>"Oh. Okay."</p><p>Martin watched her go. Watched his own hand ball up into a fist and relax. Watched his heart rate creep up on the monitor.</p><p>Ray was dead, and Martin was free, and everything should be fine. So why was he still thinking of him as <em>Ray?</em></p><p>Someone, not the same nurse, came back with a little cup of red jelly for him. Martin's mum had always hated jelly, for some reason, but hospitals kept serving it to her anyway; if she wasn't in too bad a mood, sometimes she'd let Martin eat it instead of saving it so she could shout at the nurses. He didn't think this particular hospital employee deserved to hear about Martin's messy childhood, though, so he took the cup and the plastic spoon and forced himself to swallow a few cloying, artificial-strawberry bites.</p><p>It didn't settle his stomach much, and it didn't make him feel any better knowing he was doing it by choice.</p><p>The nurse from before stuck her head around the edge of the curtain. "Hey! I just checked, your friend's been moved up to an Acute Medical Unit for observation. I can get you his room number, if you like."</p><p>Martin's heart leapt. "C-could you? Please?"</p><p>She glanced at the tray in his lap. "Finish off your snack there and I'll hand it over."</p><p>He'd never eaten anything so fast.</p><p>Jon was alone in his room; his wounds had been bandaged, and he had an oxygen mask on. He seemed to be unconscious, so Martin tried to make as little noise as possible as he examined the white board next to the bed. He recognized some of the drugs listed — painkillers, steroids, a vasopressor, a diuretic. Even with all the support, Jon's blood pressure was low and his oxygen levels weren't great. If he was still protected—</p><p>Martin swallowed a bitter laugh. The power that had been protecting Jon was the same thing that <em>did this to him. </em>No point in expecting it to save him now.</p><p>He must've made more noise than he was intending to, because Jon's eyes flickered open. Martin braced himself for the inevitable: the flinch, the recoil. He couldn't even blame him for it, because Ray had done this to him but Martin had <em>helped. </em>Of course Jon wouldn't want him around anymore, wouldn't want the reminder, and it had been selfish of Martin to even come here—</p><p>Jon tried to say something, but the oxygen mask muffled the words. There was no mistaking, however, the hand he extended in Martin's direction. Tentatively, Martin reached for it; Jon took his hand, and squeezed.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Martin blurted, and then he started to cry again.</p><p>For a while, that was all he did. He stood next to the bed and cried, and Jon clung to his hand, even when Martin tried to let go. The tears didn't seem to stop; every time he thought he was getting a grip on himself, his thoughts looped back around to the bruises and bandages that littered Jon's body, or the memory of carrying him, limp and helpless, into Artefact Storage, and then he was gone again. Eventually Jon managed to raise his other arm and start messing with the oxygen mask. Once he'd got one of the ear loops off, it shifted enough for him to talk around it. "Martin, no. It's not your fault."</p><p>"I hurt you," Martin blurted. "I could've killed you. I've been — I was telling him about you, about us, for months. Of <em>course</em> it's my fault."</p><p>Jon squeezed his hand again, weakly. "You didn't have a choice."</p><p>He swiped at the tears dripping from his chin. "I didn't try."</p><p>Jon ran his thumb over Martin's knuckles; they were bruised, like the rest of him, from when the shelf toppled over. The brief shock to the system that had finally, finally given him a chance to resist. "Fielding did this to us," Jon said firmly. "And he singled you out because of me. I'm … honestly, I'm surprised you want anything to with me now, when I'm tangled up in the same—"</p><p>He cut himself off as he started coughing, a wet, wheezing sound, and Martin pressed the oxygen mask back over his face. "You're not like him," he said firmly. "You've never hurt people." <em>Not like me.</em></p><p>It was hard to hear what Jon was saying through the mask, but if Martin leaned close he could sort of make it out. "That <em>wasn't you, </em>Martin."</p><p>"Then what was?" he demanded. "Because he had his, his <em>hooks </em>in me the whole time I've — that we've — and I don't know what's me and what's <em>him. </em>I can't <em>trust</em> myself."</p><p>"I trust you," Jon said, or something close.</p><p>Martin fought back more tears. "Well, you shouldn't."</p><p>Someone cleared their throat, behind him; Gerry was standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Martin immediately leapt back from Jon's side, and for a brief, wild moment considered raising his hands above his head, to prove he was safe. But Gerry's eyes stayed fixed on Jon, taking in the tubes and bandages, almost hungry in their intensity.</p><p>Jon waved a little. Gerry's shoulders collapsed in, and he let out a long, slow breath.</p><p>"I sh—" Martin swallowed. He felt like he shouldn't be seeing this. "I should go."</p><p>Jon made a noise of protest, but Martin ignored it. He couldn't ignore Gerry, who was blocking the door of the room, and didn't budge as Martin approached him. "You can stay," Gerry said softly.</p><p>"I really can't."</p><p>"Just saying—" Gerry raised a hand, and Martin instinctively flinched away from it. Not that he thought Gerry was actually going to — hit him, or something. Not in the middle of the hospital. But just because Jon seemed perfectly willing to forgive him didn't mean anyone else would be so charitable. Gerry just placed his hand on Martin's arm, though, a little below his shoulder. "You shouldn't be alone right now."</p><p>Right. Because Ray might not be done with him. "Sasha's waiting for me, isn't she?" Martin stammered. (God, Sasha had been right about almost everything, had been right not trust him—)</p><p>"Yeah. And she could probably use a friend, too." He squeezed Martin's arm, gently, and then let go. "I can understand it if you don't want to hang around the bookshop right now, but you're always welcome."</p><p>"Thank you," Martin said, because he knew he didn't deserve it. Gerry finally stepped aside, and let Martin flee down the corridor.</p>
<hr/><p>Sasha texted Tim in the late afternoon: <em>Can I come over?</em></p><p>Tim had gone home. He didn't know what else <em>to </em>do, once the ambulances had left and the police had cordoned off the basement. Maybe other people could go back to their offices and keep up the pretense of being at a normal fucking workplace, but he just couldn't.</p><p>"I'll catch up," Melanie had told him when he asked if she wanted to split a cab, and he'd let her go, because he didn't have the mental bandwidth to be worried at the time. He'd gone home, and read Sasha's occasional texts from the hospital without replying, and tried to work out what the fuck he was going to do next.</p><p>He stared at the message for a long time, debating with himself. <em>Sure, </em>he eventually sent back. Then he looked around the wreck of his flat. Melanie hadn't been back yet, so there had been no motivation to deal with the dirty dishes, the empty bottles — mostly from last night, though he'd given in to a bit of the hair of the dog once he got home — the unmade bed visible through the bedroom door. He shut the door, and bagged up the empties for recycling. The dishes, he thought, they would both just have to live with.</p><p>When Sasha arrived, she'd changed out of the soot-streaked clothes she'd worn at the Institute, though she still had the tense posture and over-bright eyes that had slowly become her default over the last few months. "Hi," she said, as he let her inside. "Erm. How are you holding up?"</p><p>"Well, I have to say, I've had better days." Tim dropped back onto the couch, the same cushion he'd been occupying uselessly for hours. Sasha perched at the other end, almost gingerly, like she wasn't sure it would take her weight. Or like she might have to get up in a hurry. "Martin get home all right?"</p><p>"He's got a hotel for a few days," she said. "His flat is … spidery. I helped him set up an appointment with an exterminator." She paused, while Tim pushed aside the implications of the word <em>spidery. </em>"We talked a bit."</p><p>"Got to say <em>I told you so, </em>did you?" Tim asked. It was petty and stupid and he immediately regretted it when she flinched. She wasn't even the one he was angry at, mostly. "Sorry."</p><p>"No, you — I'm the one who should be apologizing." She took a deep breath. "I didn't have to cut you out. I didn't have to go off on my own. If we'd worked together from the start, things might not have gone this far or gotten this bad. I should've trusted you both."</p><p>That pulled a bitter laugh out of him. "No, you shouldn't have. We were <em>compromised. </em>Fielding had us all dancing on his strings, except for you, apparently."</p><p>"I didn't know that," she pointed out. "I just wanted to get my way, to figure out the damned puzzle, and I treated you like shit because of it. You were right about the risks, and you were right about me being paranoid. I handled this all wrong."</p><p>Now she said it. And all it took was the near-end of the world, apparently. "You have this talk with Martin, too?" Tim asked.</p><p>She nodded. "He's not … Fielding did much worse to him than anyone else at the Institute. I think he needs some time. But I apologized, for pushing him away instead of trying to help him."</p><p>"At least you <em>noticed </em>him," Tim muttered. He'd been too caught up in hunting the Stranger to notice anything was wrong. It had been awful, dancing to Fielding's tune, unable to stop himself — and that had been something innocuous, just for a few hours. Martin had been meeting solo with Fielding for <em>months.</em></p><p>"I don't think he blames anyone but himself," Sasha said. "And Fielding, of course."</p><p>"Who's dead?"</p><p>"Yeah." Sasha was drumming her fingers against the couch cushion in a frantic rhythm. "I'm not sure how, exactly, and I didn't get a chance to ask Gerard about it, but I suspect —"</p><p>Tim covered her hand with his, stopping her drumming. She fell silent, cringing. "As long as he's gone for good, I don't care about the details."</p><p>"Right. No, he's — he's definitely gone." She looked down at where their hands were joined. "Tim, I need help."</p><p>"I mean, I think we all do," he said, trying to lighten the tone.</p><p>She shook her head. "No. I mean — god, I don't even know how to say this."</p><p>"Then don't?" he suggested. "We've had enough drama and trauma for one day, haven't we?"</p><p>"It's important." She pulled her hand away, and wrapped her arms around herself like she might fly apart without them. "People get — claimed, by the Dread Powers. You know that, right? There's some kind of sympathy, or maybe a synergy, and they — change. Become less human and more … more not."</p><p>Dread prickled in Tim's stomach and on the back of his neck. "What are you saying, Sash?"</p><p>"I'm saying that I'm changing," she said in a rush. "And I don't like it. I don't want to end up like — like Prentiss, or Fielding, or even Gertrude. But the Eye has a hold on me now, and I don't know if I can resist it on my own."</p><p>It took a moment to remember which one was the Eye. The fear of being watched, right. And Sasha was nothing if not observant. But — "You don't look different," Tim said, and immediately felt stupid for saying it out loud.</p><p>She shook her head. "Neither did Gertrude. But she could make people tell her things, whether they wanted to or not, and I … I can do that too."</p><p>"So, wait — " Tim thought about the middle-of-the-night story hour, about Gertrude somehow pulling Danny's death out of him. He'd known there was something spooky about that, but somehow <em>incarnation of voyeurism </em>hadn't come up on his list. "How did this happen?"</p><p>"It happened because I wanted to know and didn't care who I hurt, or how I found out," Sasha said bitterly. "It happened because the Institute always has to have an Archivist. But I can — Gertrude rejected it, all her life. And I can reject it, too. I don't have to be a monster."</p><p>She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than anything, and her voice was shaking. "Can't you just quit?" he asked. "If working for the Institute did this—"</p><p>"Gertrude quit," Sasha pointed out. "And it didn't save her."</p><p>"Yeah, but she'd worked there for like a hundred years already," Tim pointed out. "I'm just saying, you don't have to go back."</p><p>"I … want to?" Sasha looked at him with big, dark eyes. "Isn't that terrible? I want to understand what's happening to me, but that understanding is what's <em>causing </em>it. It's like a catch-22."</p><p>"Jesus." Tim rubbed his eyes. Was there even an Institute to go back to anymore? Without Fielding there to puppet its corpse? Did that matter to the Entities, if one of them had already picked out Sasha to be its instrument? Gerry had been right; this whole business was a fucking nightmare, a shit parfait with every layer worse than the last.</p><p>And Tim had decided he wanted to keep digging anyway. For Danny, and for himself, and now for Sasha, too. If nothing else, to get one good lick in against the things that had first sent him down this particular road to Hell.</p><p>So he slid down the length of the couch and put his hand on Sasha's again. It was trembling slightly. "What can I do to help?" he asked.</p><p>"Just…" She took a deep breath. "Just don't let me be a bitch, okay? Don't let me push your boundaries or shut you out."</p><p>"Don't let you skin old lady corpses?" he suggested. She went rigid. "Because that was a <em>hell </em>of a suggestion, Sash."</p><p>She nodded, cringing. "Right. I don't — I wish I could say it <em>made</em> me suggest that, the Eye, but I don't know. I don't know if I trust my judgement right now."</p><p>"You <em>don't know</em>?" he echoed, incredulous. "So, what, you want me to be your Jiminy Cricket? Chase you around with a spray bottle when you're crossing a line?"</p><p>"I want you to be my friend," she said, and snatched her hand back. "To call me out when I'm crossing a line, like you did with — with the book. Because I don't want to become a monster, but I'm afraid I wouldn't notice if I did."</p><p>Christ. "I want my friend back, too," Tim told her. "But that's a two-way street. You disappeared on us, Sasha."</p><p>"I know," she said. "But … I'm here now. And if there's anything I can do for you…"</p><p>He considered, for a moment, telling her about the Circus. Relaying what Gerry had told him about their ritual, and the utter futility of stopping it. About revenge being so close and yet so far away, a splinter under his skin that he couldn't scratch out.</p><p>But he didn't really want to. Not now, when they were both feeling raw. Instead, he scooted even closer, closing the gap to put his arm around her shoulders. "Just be here. Okay?"</p><p>"Okay," she said quietly, and after a moment she relaxed into his shoulder. "I can do that."</p><p>She looked frail, in that moment, in a way he wasn't used to associating with her. She didn't look anything like a monster. Maybe that was the problem. "You want to stay the night here?" he asked.</p><p>"What about Melanie?"</p><p>"I can text her. Blow up the air mattress, maybe." He paused. "Or you could sleep in the bed…?"</p><p>Sasha laughed weakly. "Very smooth. A for effort."</p><p>"I try."</p><p>She fell asleep leaning against him, and Tim valiantly snagged his phone without disturbing her. Melanie, it seemed, had already left him a text message he hadn't noticed. <em>Thanks for the sofa. Think I can sleep at my place again until month's end.</em></p><p><em>Door's always open, </em>he replied.</p><p>
  <em>You'll regret saying that when I ask you to help me move in a couple of weeks.</em>
</p><p>Tim set the phone aside, and relaxed back into the couch cushions. Sasha didn't stir. He might actually give her the bed tonight, even if it meant exiling himself to the living room. Later, though. Eventually he’d have to wake her for food, or whenever his arm started falling asleep, but until then he could sit here while she rested on him and pretend that things were fine.</p>
<hr/><p>The business of Gertrude’s funeral arrangements was blessedly brief, and Jon could sleep through most of it. Gerry had done more than enough research on the circus to know that Gertrude had wanted a cremation, and that alone cut the number of decisions to be made in half. No headstone, no obituary, no announcements, and since Gertrude had technically been dead since 2015, precious little fanfare in that department.</p><p>On the flip side, however, that meant any of the given assets she still managed were likely to be under a mystery alias. Some of them, Gerry confessed to knowing about, like her storage unit and the safehouse in Pimlico — which rankled a bit, but he'd apologized for the big secret, and Jon knew he couldn't keep getting worked up about the little ones. The boltholes Gerry didn't know about were more concerning, and he apparently needed to become some sort of expert hacker in order to sort through all of her online records.</p><p>“This is bloody impossible,” he complained to Jon, as he narrated the process of trying to access one of her several e-mails. The task was certainly no easier to accomplish while operating from his phone on hospital wi-fi, but he refused Jon’s every suggestion that he head home to sort any of it out. “I’m not leaving you here <em>alone,</em>” he scoffed every time, as if there weren’t one of twelve different nurses on the ward, available at the push of a button.</p><p>Jon let him stay, because it was clearly part of Gerry’s attempt to make things up to him, and better than leaving either of them alone with their thoughts at this point. He had banned Gerry from any more verbal apologies after two days. “I have neither the desire nor the energy to resent you,” Jon had explained, “and so I’ve decided not to. That’s the end of it.”</p><p>"That simple, eh?" Gerry asked, looking skeptical.</p><p>Of course it wasn't. But they needed to move forward. "They're my feelings, and I can do with them what I like," Jon said, which at least made Gerry smile.</p><p>If only Martin could get any of that through his head. Jon had tried calling, as soon as he was strong enough to sit up in bed and dial the phone, and had left a few voicemails that he hoped were reassuring, even if slightly addled by medication. Martin had so far neglected to pick up, though he had sent a few dull, remorseful text messages. <em>I don’t want to get in the way of your recovery,</em> he’d said, and then after Jon told him how ridiculous that sounded, <em>Please, I just think it would be better if we both took some time. The past couple days have been really hard. I care about you so much, and I don’t want to ruin things.</em></p><p>Jon frowned at his phone. <em>I care about you too, </em>he finally replied. <em>But if you want to take some time, I won’t argue. Just please, Martin, don’t take too long.</em></p><p>It had been days, though, and apparently Martin still wasn’t ready. Jon was beginning to wonder exactly what that timeline was going to look like, but luckily Gerry was there to distract him with the process of choosing an urn.</p><p>“Look at this,” he said, holding his phone out to Jon, who set his own aside. “You can get a big posh black-and-gold keepsake thing for under twenty pounds, but if you want something <em>biodegradable,</em> you can run yourself a hundred, easy.”</p><p>Jon squinted at the tiny screen. “Is that one shaped like a turtle?”</p><p>Gerry scrolled down and peered at it himself. “Yep. Yeah, it is. Fucking hell, why not. Let’s just put Gertrude in a turtle and chuck her into the sea.”</p><p>He probably meant it as a joke, but just in case, Jon still felt obliged to point out, “It’s almost £300, Gerry.”</p><p>“Kind of expensive for a last-ditch fuck-you,” he conceded. “But it’s the thought that counts.”</p><p>“Speaking of, when is the memorial?” Jon asked. “Do you even think you could get the turtle delivered in time?”</p><p>“Wh — There’s no memorial,” Gerry said, brow furrowed. “She’s supposed to have already been dead, it’s not like — Honestly, it’s not like she’d give a shit.”</p><p>Jon sighed. “Memorials aren’t for the deceased, you know,” he said, making a concentrated effort to sound kind rather than patronizing, although he knew it was a long shot.</p><p>Gerry folded his arms, looking unsure what to do with the fresh discomfort of this concept. “Who the hell am I supposed to invite, anyway? Everyone who gave a shit about Gertrude is either also dead or evil incarnate. Some of them are both.”</p><p>Jon tried to wave a hand dismissively, though the gesture was hampered somewhat by his IV. “There’s still us. We could probably do it sometime next week — Hopefully I’ll be up and about by then.”</p><p>“Er. Okay. Maybe.” Gerry examined his fingernails — freshly painted, as were Jon’s, which the nurses hadn't liked. “Maybe I’ll bring Mum.”</p><p>Jon considered this. “As much as it would be remiss not to offer your mother a chance to process the death of an old friend..." he began.</p><p>Gerry cut him off. “Yeah, she’d find some way to fuck it up. Probably nothing would give her more pleasure.”</p><p>“Ah, <em>dear</em> old Mary,” said Jon, in his most sardonic tones, which never failed to make Gerry laugh. He snorted, now, and bestowed upon Jon the most painstakingly gentle of affectionate nudges. “I’m not made of glass, you know,” Jon pointed out drily.</p><p>“Sure. Tell it to me when you can do a mile hike. Your body’s been under a lot of stress lately.” Gerry’s tone was still casual, but very deliberately so, and he had started to pick at his nails again.</p><p>“Gerry, I could never in my <em>life</em> do a mile hike,” Jon replied emphatically. “And my body is always undergoing stress, for the past year I’ve lived with you and your impulse cooking. I never know <em>when</em> the bloody fire alarm is going to go off, I exist in a constant state of high alert.”</p><p>“All right, shut your fucking mouth,” Gerry retorted, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “I’ve watched you burn three eggs in a row.”</p><p>“And you ate them. They were eggs for you, you git.”</p><p>“Whatever.” Gerry nudged him again, this time slightly harder, although he did check around afterward to be sure none of the nurses saw. “So —are we set on the turtle? Or the sea, for that matter?”</p><p>“Seems like a bit too much fuss for her, really,” Jon mused. “All she needs is a sensible box.”</p><p>Gerry grinned. “That’s more like it. She might have even put that in her will, verbatim.”</p><p>"It's an omen," Jon told him very seriously, just to hear Gerry explain to him how wrong he was, and what <em>actually</em> constituted an omen. "You bloody occultists are all so uptight," he added, after Gerry had been going for a good minute or so.</p><p>"Just you wait until you don't have hospital immunity," Gerry threatened. "I'm going to hit you with <em>so </em>many pillows."</p><p>"Not if I get you first," Jon countered. He was pleased to discover, every time, that none of this exchange felt forced; it was like knowing how to swim the minute his toes touched the water. Healing was going to be a slow, painful process, but if he could simply exist this way with Gerry, even after all that had happened, it gave Jon some reassurance that other things, too, might come back with time. He could have patience. Jon still hated spiders, but they had, at least, taught him that much. </p><p><br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fun fact: You can, if desired, purchase a biodegradable urn shaped like a turtle online for about $259. Seems like a very whimsical way to go, if that's your steaze!</p><p>- Luka (shipwreckblue)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Gerry attend a memorial. Sasha attends a meeting.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time Jon was released from hospital, the lesions from the spider bites had faded to greenish bruises, and he could take a deep breath without coughing, though he still felt weak and — well, like he'd nearly died. It was good to have his freedom again, though he still wasn't sure what to do with it. What <em>freedom </em>even meant, given his curious relationship to the Mother of Puppets.</p><p>Nearly a week after the world didn't end, he and Gerry stood on Albert Bridge while traffic meandered around them, holding a very sensible brown box. They had chosen a time when foot traffic was as low as it got, but when they were finally standing out in the open with the receptacle, it all felt strangely exposed. “Is this legal?” Jon asked, somehow for the first time. “Are we going to get arrested again?”</p><p>“Relax,” Gerry said, placing the box on the railing. “I’m not going to dump her remains on some poor sods having a boat tour. I just thought this was a good place to scatter a pinch, or something, you know? It’s, sort of as close to the Institute as I’m willing to get.”</p><p>Jon nodded, adjusting his jacket. “Ah. Yes, I think she would appreciate being able to keep an eye on the place.”</p><p>“Ha ha,” Gerry drawled, then eyed the box nervously and ran a hand through his hair. “Should we, like — say something? Or just…”</p><p>“We can say something,” Jon offered.</p><p>“Right.” Gerry nodded stiffly. “Sorry, I’ve just… I’ve never really done this, you know, for real.”</p><p>“I know.” Jon rested a hand on his elbow reassuringly. “Do you want to go first?”</p><p>“Guess so.” Clearing his throat, he straightened up. “Gertrude fixed a lot of problems, in my life. She also caused a whole bloody load of them.” He sniffed, and swiped his knuckles across his face discreetly. “I think she was like that for a lot of people. Some of them deserved all the problems, but… I dunno if I did. But I’m grateful for the good stuff, anyway.” After a light pause, he nodded to Jon. “You can go now.”</p><p>“All right.” Jon closed his eyes briefly, thinking, then said, “I appreciate why Gertrude made the choices that she did. However, my good opinion, once lost, is lost forever. A hundred and six people deserved better.”</p><p>Gerry waited to see if there was more, then nodded solemnly. “Right then. I suppose it’s time for the ashes to ashes bit.”</p><p>Something caught Jon’s eye, and he glanced down the bridge’s walkway, then elbowed his companion in the side. “Gerry. Gerry, those people are pointing at us.”</p><p>“A lot of people point at me. It’s because of my stunning regalia.” Gerry was concentrating on trying to pry off the box lid; it was sealed very tightly, for obvious good reason.</p><p>“No, Gerry, they — Gerry, I think that’s a constable,” Jon said more insistently. “I think we should go now. I think we should—”</p><p>“Hang on — Fuck!” In his attempts to gain Gerry’s attention, Jon had jostled him hard enough for him to stumble, and his hands slipped on the box. Both of them gasped in surprise as it shot out of his grip and dropped over the edge, out of sight. Jon was relieved to hear a distinct <em>plunk</em> as Gertrude’s remains thankfully hit the water of the Thames below, instead of braining some poor tourist.</p><p>“Shit,” Gerry said blankly, and then, “Okay. Right! Time to go!”</p><p>He threw an arm around Jon and began to stride towards the other end of the bridge, very quickly, to the point where Jon had trouble keeping up; his heart fluttered in protest at the sudden burst of activity “Slow <em>down,”</em> he hissed, yanking on Gerry’s shirt, but they didn’t slow until they reached one of the antique toll booths at the end of the bridge walk and Gerry had pulled them both behind one. “You shit,” Jon wheezed, slumping against him.</p><p>“<em>Sorry,</em>” Gerry groaned through his teeth. “I just—”</p><p>“I know. I know.” Jon swatted at him halfheartedly. “It’s fine.”</p><p>They waited while the constable walked past them, squinting into the trees lining the avenue, then turned around. “There, he’s gone,” Gerry said. “Let’s scarper.”</p><p>They did just that, and even managed to make it a few streets before Jon ventured, in a perfectly even voice, “So in terms of memorial services, how do you think—”</p><p>Gerry dissolved with laughter before he’d finished the sentence, and Jon couldn’t help joining him, even though he was still rather out of breath, and he thought Gerry might be crying a little. “Ahh,” Gerry moaned after they’d stumbled to a halt next to a bus stop. “For fuck’s <em>sake,</em> that was a <em>disaster…</em> We’d be such shit funeral directors, Jon!”</p><p>“We would absolutely get sued,” Jon agreed hoarsely. “Launching peoples’ loved ones into the Thames at random. <em>Bon voyage!”</em></p><p>“And I bet you’d be quoting <em>Pride and Prejudice</em> at every bloody ceremony,” Gerry added, sniggering. “God, you must really love that one.”</p><p>Jon blinked at him. “You actually read it?”</p><p>“Yeah! With everything going on I forgot to — Yeah, I er. Actually, it was — I thought it was better, for a while, when she was gone, not to talk to you so much,” he admitted, sheepish and red-faced from laughing. “Because then I wouldn’t have to lie? And reading one of the books you like was sort of the next best thing. Actually I may have cheated and watched the film version first, but—”</p><p>“Gerry,” Jon said, mortified to find himself choked up.</p><p>“Oh fuck off, don’t do that, I’ll cry.” Gerry sniffed, shoving him lightly. “I’m sick of ruining my makeup over prissy old academics.”</p><p>“I’m younger than you,” Jon retorted, shoving him back.</p><p>“Yeah,” Gerry said, then leaned in a little too close, though he seemed to catch himself at the last minute, hovering. Then he threw his arms around Jon, burying his face in his neck. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick and muffled.</p><p>Jon just put his arms around him, slowly, considering how warm he felt, and how welcome. Whatever else happened — whatever else he was — he at least still had this. "You, too."</p><p>Jon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Gerry showed no sign of releasing the embrace, so Jon fished his phone out one-handed and checked the message over Gerry's hunched shoulder. His heart leapt when he saw Martin's name on the screen. <em>Can we talk? </em></p><p><em>Call me tonight,</em> Jon sent back, and then put his phone away.</p><p>“You know, come to think of it, we probably should have gone with the turtle,” Gerry mumbled into Jon's neck. “I don’t think that box was biodegradable.”</p><p>“We both know it’s not the worst thing that’s ever gone in the Thames,” Jon said, and Gerry laughed as he finally pulled away. Despite his protestations, his eyeliner looked perfect. "Come on, let's go home," Jon said.</p><p>"I want chips," Gerry protested, apropos of nothing.</p><p>"Well, then, let's get some chips and go home." Jon might still be the target of some spidery agenda, but he was still here, and it seemed he still had both his favorite people. He felt well-prepared to face whatever was to come.</p>
<hr/><p>The Institute was closed for the entire following week, and Sasha honestly wasn't sure what was going to happen next. Amy from HR sent out a few rambling emails about the board of trustees — Sasha hadn't realized they still <em>had </em>those, after the fire — but there didn't seem to be any point to keeping the place open, not without a director or funding or most of its staff.</p><p>What did it even mean, to be an Archivist without an Archive? What did she want it to mean?</p><p>She helped Martin get back into his flat, once the exterminators were gone. She helped Melanie move some boxes into storage, and listened to her rant about outrageous rents. She didn't try to get in touch with Gerard or Jon, though she heard when Jon was released from hospital. She wasn't ready to have those conversations.</p><p>Monday morning, her phone woke her up — not her usual alarm, not the ringtone or a text alert. A calendar alert, informing her of a new event. She groped it off the nightstand to switch it off, but when she actually saw what the event was, she froze.</p><p>
  <em>Head of institute meeting with department heads - 1pm </em>
</p><p>For a moment, she could only blink at it. Then fear congealed in her stomach, an instinctive reaction — Fielding had insinuated himself into the Institute so smoothly, so completely that they'd all kept right on working without even realizing anything was amiss. Surely some other monster wasn't about to do the same thing?</p><p>(And the greedy part of her — the most Archivist part, she assumed — was as curious as the rest of her was worried. Here was a fresh mystery, dangled in front of her nose. Wouldn't it be a <em>shame </em>not to investigate?)</p><p>So she put on a skirt and a nice blouse, paired with shoes she could run in if she had to. She did her make-up and tied her hair up in a high bun, the style Tim always told her was <em>peak librarian. </em>She knew what armor looked like in an academic setting, and she put on the best she had.</p><p>She made it to the Institute well before one, and found it buzzing with the most activity she'd seen since the fire. What appeared to be professional cleaners were moving through every room and corridor, sweeping away grime (and more importantly, cobwebs). She poked her nose into the archive and found that the soot had been power-washed from the floors; the boxes of damaged statements were untouched, but a team of workers were assembling new shelves and carrying off the damaged ones.</p><p>On the second floor, the empty conference rooms had all been opened up to air for the first time in months. The portraits of former heads that used to hang on the walls were all gone, leaving a patchwork of discolored paint behind. At the end of the hall, the door to the director's office stood open as well, and Sasha approached with a mix of fear and giddy anticipation.</p><p>Behind the desk was a woman. Sasha's first assessment of her was <em>oh my god, she's young — </em>they were <em>maybe </em>the same age, if she was being generous. The woman was white, with long auburn hair that hung loose around her shoulders. Auburn, except for a dramatic white streak that ran back from her hairline before disappearing among the fiery locks.</p><p>She looked up when she noticed Sasha in the doorway, and her eyes were the blue of a pilot light. "Oh, hello," she said, smiling awkwardly. "You must be the new Head Archivist. I was hoping you'd stop by early."</p><p>"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Sasha stammered, but she stepped fully into the room anyway—</p><p>— and was engulfed in a wave of hot, dry air. Even for mid-summer, it was impossibly stuffy in the room, almost oven-like. The woman behind the desk stood up and stepped out, revealing that, somehow, she was wearing a turtleneck and a tweed maxi skirt. Meanwhile Sasha had instantly started to sweat in a knee-length skirt and cap sleeves.</p><p>"Agnes Montague," the woman said, pressing one hand to her chest and bowing slightly. "Forgive me for not shaking hands. I'm an old friend of Gertrude Robinson, and I must say I'm excited to meet her successor."</p><p>Sasha rapidly realized three things in that moment. The first was that any <em>old friend </em>of Gertrude's was almost certainly older than this woman appeared to be. The second was that, as she returned the bow, she could see scorch marks forming on the floor around the desk. The carpets had been pulled up, and rolled to the walls, as if in anticipation of this effect.</p><p>The third was that, on top of the desk, there was a braided bracelet that had been neatly sliced open, close to the knot. The fibers of the bracelet looked an awful lot like Agnes Montague's hair.</p><p>"Were you — acquainted — with Mr. Fielding, then?" Sasha asked, already suspecting the answer.</p><p>"Oh, yes, indeed," Agnes said, and her smile got sharper. "Raymond and I had quite a history together. I daresay I owe a debt to whoever — took care of him."</p><p>"I see." Not that she would ever, ever tell Martin this.</p><p>"I know you're new to the position," Agnes continued. "So I suppose we'll both have to muddle through the best we can. But I'm looking forward to working with you, Sasha. I think we're going to accomplish great things together."</p><p>Sasha forced herself to smile, and wondered just what that was supposed to mean.</p><p>
  <em>-End-</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you got this far, thank you so, so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Please let us know what you thought- It would mean a lot. </p><p>- Luka (shipwreckblue) and Maud (Mad_Maudlin)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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